


Beyond the End

by crossingwinter



Series: Beyond The End [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Beta pairing: Sansa Stark/Edric Dayne, Canon Divergence/Post-Canon, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Underage tagged because Arya is 16-17, roadtrip au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 80,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The snows fall ten-feet deep during Northern winters, and the snow around Winterfell is pink with blood.   But dawn has been won, and the kingdoms can dream of spring.  </p><p>Far to the north, in a great cave, the King in the North—one of the heroes of the dawn, whose visions helped save the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros—sits trapped among the weirwoods.  But not for long: his big sister is coming to fetch him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gendry

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a tricky author’s note: This is fundamentally a “post-canon” fic, though I actually consider it to be much more “canon-divergence” than “post-canon”; there are elements of it that I would anticipate from canon and others that I am fully aware are products of my own “please George be nice to us” mentality. I also fully anticipate that TWOW will make this one big AU/canon-divergence. But please don’t consider this my “endgame-predictions.” Honestly, writing this made me think that a lot of it would never even begin to happen, so….yeah. All for fun.
> 
> Ages, before you ask: Arya is sixteen or so. Everyone else’s ages can be calculated accordingly. Proportions are canon proportions.

_“Jon_ _!”_   


_“Arya!”_

_“Jon!  JON! No—let go of me!”_

_“Arya—don’t!”_

_“GENDRY LET GO OF ME!  Jon!  JON!”_

_He did not let go.  He could not let go.  He dragged her back, dragged her away._

_She went limp in his arms and somewhere, in the distance, Gendry heard the howl of a wolf._

* * *

Gendry awoke in darkness to the howling of the wind outside, and it took him a moment to remember where he was and why he was sore. 

 _Winterfell_ , he thought.  _I am in Winterfell._ But unlike the day before, he did not spring to his feet as the memory of where and why he was hit him. He did not reach for his sword, or his helm and hurry off to the walls of the great castle.  He just lay there, listening to the whistling wind, willing himself to hear the song of wolves.

 _So long as Nymeria’s alive, it will be all right_ , he told himself.  _So long as she still lives_.

Nymeria had not returned to the keep after the Night’s King had fallen.  Nor had her wolves, the hundreds of them, thin and hungry, and eating the frozen dead flesh of wights.  He had stared out at the swirling snows for what felt like hours, hoping to catch sight of the great hulking she-wolf that Arya had hugged and cuddled as if she were a puppy, and who had nuzzled him affectionately after deciding that he would not harm Arya.  She was hard to miss, especially against the snow.  She wasn’t like Lord Snow’s direwolf, the white one that faded into their wintery surroundings so easily.  She was huge and grey and the size of a horse. _An angry horse_ , Gendry thought. 

But Nymeria had not returned.  She had not come back to Winterfell the way that Sansa had predicted.  She had howled and loped off, her pack at her heels, and Gendry had waited, hoping they were only going to hunt and that Nymeria would come back soon, back to warmth, and home.

He rolled off his pallet and did his best to straighten his rumpled tunic before grabbing the thick woolen sweater and his jerkin which he laced as tightly as he could to keep the winter coldness at bay.  He did not look around the darkened room as he stepped around the sleeping forms of the other foot-soldiers and knights who had crammed into one of the Winterfell’s warmed rooms.  Once, vividly, he remembered sneaking past his fellow apprentices in the dark of night to find Arya, who was telling him he had to leave Harrenhal.  He’d been dubious then, though not so dubious as to ignore the fervor of her voice.  _She always knew when something bad was going to happen_ , he thought.  _She always knew_.

She’d told him the night before Lord Snow had fallen that she had a bad feeling, a taste in her mouth she couldn’t place.  _“Bad things always happen to me,”_ she’d confessed, her eyes round with nervousness, _“right when I think something good is going to happen—it doesn’t. It’s worse.  I don’t know.  Maybe I’m just stupid.”_

He’d told her she probably was and that had made her smile.

But she hadn’t been wrong. She hadn’t been wrong at all, and now her brother was dead, and even if he’d fallen in battle, fallen defending the realms of men as his vows had dictated, that hadn’t meant that he hadn’t heard the sharp agony in Arya’s voice as she’d screamed his name and fought Gendry viciously until her mind had left her body behind, as if to spite Gendry’s efforts to keep her alive.

 _What was I supposed to have done_? he wondered bitterly. _What was I supposed to have done?  Let her go and get herself killed?_ He would never have been able to forgive himself. 

The main hall was mostly empty, but Gendry was not surprised to see Sansa sitting near the end of the long table, her back straight and her hands clutching her cloak about her. Lord Lannister was seated with her, as were Lords Royce, Arryn, and Umber. 

“Until such a time as my brother is returned,” Sansa was saying, but Harrold Arryn cut her off.

“Until such a time as your brother is returned?  He’s a cripple—miles and miles away from here.  He won’t be coming back, Lady Sansa—I promise you.”

“I think, Lord Arryn,” Tyrion Lannister intoned, “That you are forgetting one other small thing—namely me.  As I recall, _I_ am still married to Sansa, and unless you plan to kill me here and now, that is rather the impediment.”

“Did you not just say you would release her of her marriage to you should her brother consent?” snarled Harrold Arryn.

“This is true,” said Tyrion Lannister, “But if you continue to use that tone, I might just change my mind.”

“You—”

“Your Grace,” interrupted Lord Royce, leaning forward, and Gendry paused in his way up the hall. Had they made Tyrion Lannister their king, then? “Lady Sansa’s hand was promised to Lord Arryn in exchange for the swords and food that helped sustain this battle.”

“ _I_ made no promise.  That was Lord Littlefinger.  And given the trouble he has caused, I don’t see why I should heed any promise he has made.”

Harrold Arryn made a growl in the back of his throat, but said nothing.

“Ser Gendry,” Sansa’s voice rang clear through the hall as he approached the table, and her blue eyes were a little too wide to be without some other intent.  “I trust you slept well.”

“My Lady,” Gendry said, inclining his head. 

“Please, will you join us? There is not much left of our supper, but you are welcome to what there is.”

Gendry seated himself beside Lord Royce and reached for one of the boiled eggs at the center of the table, rolling it along the wood so that the shell chipped away. Silence surrounded him, and he was sure that Lords Arryn and Royce did not particularly like the idea of discussing this matter before him.  _Doesn’t matter if I’m a knight_ , he thought, picking the last of the shell away from his egg, _I’m still too bloody lowborn for them. Though now that this is all done, they can go back to their mountains and pretend I don’t exist._

“She has not awoken?” he asked Sansa, before taking a bite of the egg.  Once he might have called it bland, but these days, with so little food and the cold pressing around upon them, it tasted like heaven in his mouth.

Sansa shook her head. “Not yet.  And Nymeria has not yet returned.  Rickon is with her now.”  She and Rickon had taken turns at Arya’s bedside, spooning thin chicken broth through her lips, and—if they had it—honey water for sweetness.  Gendry hadn’t had the time to—not with men falling like flies as the Others made one final push. He’d wanted to see her—truly wanted to.  Somehow everything had felt lonelier without her there.  The other fighters were good men, on the whole, but they weren’t Arya. Arya had always been different from everyone else, and when she wasn’t there, he felt her absense. They weren’t his friends the way that Arya was.  No one was.

“Mayhaps she will stay with the wolves forever,” Harrold Arryn said scornfully, “As unnatural as she is. What woman finds pleasure in swordplay?”  Gendry glared at him. Arya had never liked Harrold Arryn, and had done her best to call him Horrible Hardyng as often as possible, knowing that it would grate him and remind him that he was an Arryn only because he had changed his name once Little Lord Robert had passed, and not because he was an Arryn by more than his mother’s blood.  Arryn had, of course, taken ill to it and had done all he could to convince everyone of how barbaric and bloodthirsty Arya and her Thousand Wolves were. “She’s feral,” he had said snidely over dinner.  “And feral beasts should be taught their place or put down.”

Sansa’s gaze was cool and her eyes narrowed as she said, “Perhaps if you took a little less interest in your own sword, you might find out, Harry.” 

Arryn flushed, and Gendry masked his amusement in another bite of boiled egg. 

Tyrion Lannister was not so subtle.  He let out a laugh and reached for the mug of beer that was sitting on the table before him. “Promise or no promise, are you sure you’d wish to bed this little wolf?  She seems to have a bite, and perhaps not the kind that would give you pleasure.”

Arryn glowered at Lannister.  “And how would you know, _Your Grace_. I thought you’d never known her bite.”

If that fazed Lannister, he did not show it.  “No, I have not. But that doesn’t mean I can’t recognize the potential.  My lady,” he raised his beer in a toast to Sansa. 

Sansa’s nostrils flared as she inclined her head.  “My lord.”

“While I’m sure you will see me as stealing away your little bride, Lord Arryn, perhaps a mote of advice for you,” Tyrion Lannister said after he finished his beer in one swig and wiped his lips clean.  “Go home. Marry a lady of the Vale. Secure your bannermen. My clansmen friends will not be pleased with your ascension, certainly not now that you’ve taken the Arryn name. I’m quite sure I can convince them to harry you a bit, Lord Harry. Or not.  Regardless—take your men home.  You served your king and kingdoms leally and bravely. Songs shall be written of your honor, of the knights of the Vale who formed such an important flank of the united armies of my kingdoms.  I’m sure any virgin daughter of any of your lords bannermen would rip her bodice open for you.  So take her. Wed her.  Give her strong blonde sons to carry on the Arryn name for generations to come.  But until our King in the North here has returned—”

“King in the North,” spat Harrold Arryn.  “And tell me, _Your Grace_ , why should I not be King of the Vale?  Why should I not tell my lords bannermen to defy your rule?  You are a kinslayer and a kingslayer both.  I doubt they would take much convincing.”

“Well, if my friends in the Mountains of the Moon aren’t enough to convince you,” Tyrion Lannister said, ignoring Arryn’s muttered “ _friends_ he says,” “Then perhaps Viserion will.  As I recall, the Eyrie is impregnable, but Visenya Targaryen was quite able to land Vhagar in its inner courtyard.  I am quite sure Viserion is up to the challenge as well.  I’m no Targaryen—so you’ll not hear me promise fire and blood, but I’m sure Viserion’s roars quite align with my own house words.”

“Is that a threat?” Arryn said heatedly.

Tyrion Lannister smiled, the scarred hole where his nose had once been stretching menacingly. “Yes.  I suppose it is.  Tommen was just a boy, and Joffrey as well, though he was quite the stupid and cruel boy.  Robert was a fool, and I do consider myself more competent than mad Aerys. Would you like to whip out your cock and have a pissing contest?  Mine is quite a little one, I’m afraid, but my piss can go quite as far as yours I’m sure.”  Lord Royce made a noise and Tyrion Lannister turned to look at him, then at Sansa. “Forgive me, my lady, that was crude.”

Sansa reached for own mug of beer but didn’t say a word.  Gendry thought he saw a smile play at her lips.  He reached for another egg.  He was hungry, and they did not seem to be eating them, so rations be damned.

“Marry a lady of the Vale, Harry,” Lannister said.  “I’m sure you can find one who is suitable.  And I doubt your lords bannermen will begrudge your having sent them north to war, given all that has transpired.  You will not look the fool, though I can promise if you do not heed this advice I give you, you shall.”  He got to his feet.  “Now, if you’ll forgive me, my lords, my lady, this little king should like very much to sleep.  It has been far too long.”  And he waddled from the hall, whistling the Rains of Castamere.

“I hope you’re happy with him,” Harrold Arryn spat at Sansa, getting to his feet as well. “You can’t truly be so stupid as to think he’ll release you of your marriage to him when your brother comes back.” He let out a laugh, “If your brother comes back.  Were I you I would pray he didn’t that you might remain here and rule Winterfell through your brother.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows at him.  “When I was little, I would tell Bran stories to help him fall asleep.  We would play together, where he was a valiant and true knight, and I was a princess he had to save from a dragon. Why would I will that he be gone from this place?  That I might rule it?”  She laughed, “I understand if you are bitter with Lord Baelish’s manipulations, but do not for a moment think that I am not as well, and that I would place his will for me before the will of my own blood.”  She turned to Gendry.  “Have you been to Arya’s bedside?  She has not awoken when Rickon or I have entreated her to do so, but she might yet if you do.”

“I have not,” Gendry said. “I had hoped she would have awoken on her own.”  Sansa sighed, and opened her mouth to speak, but Arryn interrupted.

“Don’t you think I don’t see what you’re doing, you bitch?”  Gendry’s head snapped towards him, but Arryn was already striding quickly from the hall, and slamming the door behind him.

“Horrible Harrold, through and through,” Sansa murmured, reaching for her beer.  She turned to Royce.  “Lord Yohn, I hope you will not take it ill when I say I would sooner die than marry him.”

“He has always been…” But Bronze Yohn’s voice trailed away.

“Hot headed? Arrogant?  I understand that he reminds you of your son, but Waymar was never so horrid,” Sansa said.  She reached forward and took Bronze Yohn’s hand in hers. 

“Waymar was arrogant—more than you will have remembered, my lady, though it is kind of you to say.” Yohn Royce yawned. “Please forgive me. I think I should sleep as well.” He stood and bowed to her. “My lady.”  And he strode from the room without even acknowledging Gendry.

Then, and only then, did Sansa lean back in her chair, her head tilting back as she stared up at the ceiling.

“Arya needs to wake up,” Sansa sighed to Gendry.  “She needs to.  I cannot do this without her.  Bran has helped as best he can, but without Jon I am alone, and they still call me Lady Lannister behind my back.  Rickon is too young. I need her to be awake.” She looked over at Gendry. “I know she mourns him. I mourn him too. He died gallantly— _heroically_.  But she must wake up.  She can’t be a wolf forever.”

Gendry frowned. There was something in Sansa’s tone that rubbed him wrong, and he wasn’t sure what it was.

“I am sure she will,” Gendry said.  “I am sure she will. She wouldn’t flee all this. I’m sure she just…” _hurts_.  She’d looked near enough dead when he’d found her in the riverlands, her grey eyes empty.  There hadn’t been blood on her sword, that little blade she’d named Needle. She had wiped it all away and hadn’t spoken for nearly three days while they rode away from the hangman’s tree. _She mourns deeply_ , he wanted to say.  _She never forgets—not ever_. But surely Sansa knew that. Sansa, who had promised to relearn her sister—surely she must have noticed that.  That was as obvious as the sun on a bright summer’s day—that Arya mourned deeply. 

Sansa closed her eyes and sighed, leaning forward again.  “It’s late,” she said.  “Or early.  I should rest.”

“The—your lord husband. He’s the new king?” Gendry asked her as she got to her feet. 

Sansa nodded. “Who else would be able to claim the crown?  He has a _dragon_.  And all the wealth of Casterly Rock. You’ll come to her? Arya?”

“Yes, of course,” Gendry said.  He reached for Bronze Yohn’s beer and finished it before getting up and following Sansa from the hall.

The room that the three remaining Starks shared was warmer than any other in the castle. Arya had said it had once been their lady mother’s bedroom, her eyes pools of misery the way they were when she remembered the last time she’d seen her mother.  Arya lay in the middle of the bed, curled on her side, arms wrapped around her knees to keep her warm if Rickon or Sansa wasn’t there, her face tilted up so that it would be easier to spoon broth between her parted lips.

“Arya,” he whispered to her, reaching down and pressing her arm.  “Arya, please wake up now.”

But she didn’t. She stayed still, breathing deeply, her face smooth and calm.  It would have looked almost peaceful, except for her eyes.  They were wide open and completely white, with no grey or black to speak of.

 


	2. Arya

She ran, her legs stretching as far as they would go.  She ran faster and farther than her little cousins, though they howled at her to let them catch up to her.  Sometimes she would pause so they could.  Other times she would press on, howling to the moon.

She wasn’t alone, though. She wasn’t.  Not because the little cousins were with her—they who had kept her company when she’d been alone.  She would not forget them.  They had been her pack when she’d been thrown from the manpack and dragged away from her sister.  She was with her brother now—the white one, the silent one, and as he ran she was not alone.

She was not alone, in her own mind either.  She was not. She had her girl with her, curled up in a ball in the warmth of her own mind, whimpering like a tired pup. _Come run with me_ , she told her girl.  _The snow is cold beneath my paws, but I am strong and warm and I smell blood. There is much flesh on which to feast_.

There was.

She started with the dead horses.   Her girl did not like the taste of man-flesh, so she would save the human dead for when her girl went away.  But horse flesh…that she could enjoy.  She ate it, and so too did her brother eat it, and her little cousins.

There was much horse flesh. And the flesh of the great dragons that had fallen from the sky—the black one and the green.  She had wanted to try their flesh too, but dragon’s blood was hot and cooked the flesh from the inside and Nymeria did not like the taste of cooked flesh.  Her girl did, when her girl was in a girl’s body.   But her girl did not like it when she ate man flesh, and her girl was hurting.  She was hurting, and nothing could make her hurt less. Not the whisper of trees calling to her or the horns of the living men who searched for the pack.  Nothing save the white wolf.

Only Ghost running at her side and opening his mouth to howl even though no sound would come out could make her girl stir.  And when Nymeria paused to breathe, or wait for the smaller cousins, or to eat, he was there at her side, close and warm and there.  _But not there_.  _Jon’s not…_ when she left Nymeria, he wouldn’t be there anymore, he wouldn’t be Jon anymore—just Ghost, only a ghost.  

* * *

She was a direwolf. She was a direwolf and Jon was here too.  Inside Nymeria, she was a queen, and her pack was her kingdom, and when they ran through the Wolfswood together as one, she could focus on the movement of her legs and the way that the wolf blood flowed through her body.

Her father had once told her she’d had the wolf blood in her. 

She wondered if he could possibly have known what that meant.  Her father hadn’t known what it was to run with wolves.

* * *

When she’d been little, and scared, or sad, or lonely, she had Jon.  When she wasn’t allowed to join in Sansa’s and Jeyne Poole’s giggling, or when they raced on ahead of her with their long legs leaving her behind she could always find Jon and he’d give her a hug, and smile at her, and make her forget that she wasn’t pretty, or talented, or graceful. He would laugh with her and call her little sister and remind her that even if Septa Mordane said she wasn’t ladylike, it didn’t matter because what mattered was that she was loved—and she  _was_ loved.  Jon and her father had always loved her, and Bran had always played with her, and Robb and baby Rickon, and even Sansa sometimes when Jeyne wasn’t around.  But Jon and Robb and her father and her mother were gone now, and Bran was far away, and Sansa was here, and she was different now, and so was Jeyne—both of them were different—but that didn’t mean that she’d rather they be different if it meant losing Jon. 

But she had. She had lost Jon.

Jon was only in the wolf now.  And he’d incline his head and they would wrestle in the snow, and he would laugh with her silently, and share his meat with her.  But if she went away, would he still be Jon?  Jon wouldn’t forget her—he never would.  He hadn’t forgotten her when she’d shown up, covered in dirt and mud and snow.  He’d smiled—how he’d _smiled_ when he’d seen her—and wrapped her in his arms, and rubbed her messy hair and called her little sister and how happy he had been to see her, how overjoyed she’d been to see him too. And she’d shown him that she’d still had Needle, and that had made him smile again as well.

Jon would never smile again now. 

Needle was all she had left of Jon Snow’s smile.

* * *

She could push south.  She could.  Her cousins wanted her to.  There were more men to the south, that was true, and she knew that Nymeria’s wolves did not fear men, and had feasted on their flesh before, but she did not like the idea of the entire pack running south. Something about that felt like a bad idea.  Felt wrong.

Through the Wolfswood they ran.  The Wolfswood felt right.  The Wolfswood was named for wolves, a place for wolves—surely it would not be so odd for them to stay there.  It was a vast forest. Arya had ridden through it as a child.  And there was good game in the forest.  Her lord father had used to go hunting in the wood. 

But the game was gone now, for the most part.  Hunted away, or fled the battle, or simply starved because the snow was tall.

The snow was so tall.

When she’d been little, she and Bran had ambushed Sansa with snowballs and Sansa had chased her around the yard while she had laughed.  There had been snow in Winterfell in the late summer, but not so much snow as this—not _nearly_ so much snow as this.

Jon faded into the snow and out again when she was not looking carefully.  But even if she couldn’t see him, she could smell him, feel him, tell that he was there with her.  He was there with the ghost of her father, riding with her as she grew past a pony and on to a full-sized horse.  Jon was there with her. 

She was not alone.

She was not alone.

* * *

Jon was distressed, and she couldn’t tell why.  His tail was swishing, his teeth were bared and he was nudging her while she lay beside him in the snow.  They were beneath a weirwood tree, with its bleeding eyes looking down at her.

Jon was distressed but she couldn’t tell why.  She yipped at him, hoping he’d understand her question.  He seemed to—or at least, seemed to understand that she was asking him something.  What was it that he was asking her?

She rolled to her feet, and shook the snow from her fur.  Jon seemed to jump slightly, and he shook his own fur. 

She cocked her head.

He cocked his head, then hopped.  Hopped once, then again, then pointed his nose at his empty footprints.

What was he doing?

She hopped to imitate him and he shook his head at her.  Then hopped again.

Why was he being so stupid? What was he doing?

Next he jerked his nose over towards the pack.  One of the cousins was watching them, her lips curled back in silent laughter. Did she know what Jon was unnerved by? Nothing was going to happen to her pack—not while she was around.  She wouldn’t let it.  She wouldn’t.  She refused to let anything bad happen to her pack ever again.

And she froze. She stared at the empty footprints—two sets of them—then at Jon, who was watching her with eyes that she knew were red, even if Nymeria’s eyes could only see shades of grey.

Two sets of prints, and Jon.  Two sets of prints and Jon.  The places of two other wolves, the places of her pack. 

Sansa and Rickon.

She looked at Jon and whined at him.

 _I can’t leave you_ , she thought, panicked.  _I won’t. You’ll fade away and you’ll be gone and I’ll have left you._

Jon’s eyes were steady as he watched her.  Steady, and he walked towards her, and rubbed his snout against the top of her head.

She let out an anguished howl, and turned away from him, turned back towards Winterfell.

She smelled him following her and heard the songs of her little cousins behind her.  And as she ran, her blood pumped hot through her body, and her breath came in cold through her mouth and nose.  Cold and warm, both at once.  Dry like the air outside and moist like something humid, something that smelled of dark, and of man.

* * *

When Arya opened her eyes, it took her a moment for them to adjust to the darkness around her. There was a fire burning in the hearth, and a torch in a sconce on the wall, but neither burned particularly brightly.  But they burned enough to glance off the hair of the body lying next to her, a familiar russet brown, and curly.  She breathed in the scent of Rickon—Rickon, not Ghost, not _Jon_ —curled next to her, asleep, and almost began to cry.

She didn’t want to cry. She _didn’t_. She wasn’t some stupid little girl.  She was Arya Stark, Arya Thousand Wolves they’d taken to calling her.  It had been Jon’s friend who’d done it—the stupid one with the big ears.

She wondered if he’d died too.

It was not a helpful thought, and she bit her lip to try and force her tears back into her eyes, taking deep breaths to steady herself, shuddering breaths shaking through her and Rickon stirred next to her. 

It was that, more than anything else, that made her go still. 

Rickon opened one bleary eye, then sat bolt-upright.  “You’re awake!” He squealed delightedly and wrapped his arms around her so tightly that Arya felt as though her ribs were cracking beneath his little arms. He was strong for his age, Rickon. And taller than Arya had remembered him being.

Rickon was babbling. “Horrible Harry was saying you would stay a wolf forever, but I think he was saying it to spite Sansa. And Old Nan kept telling stories about the Long Night as though it weren’t happening right now, but she kept mixing it up with the story of Nymeria, and I thought that was a sign that you were _sure_ to wake up, but Osha said that it was just Old Nan being old, and that you wouldn’t be the first to lose yourself to the wolf.  Sansa said you’d be back.  And Gendry too. Gendry comes in every day to see you.”  Arya felt her heart tighten and anger rise hot to her chest as she felt Gendry’s arms around her, holding her back, dragging her away from Jon.  “But you still didn’t wake up.  You were always just here.  Here with me.  I thought that if Shaggy came and lay with you you’d smell him and remember that you needed to come home, but that didn’t work.  And Lady’s dead, so Sansa couldn’t make her try.” Rickon bit his lip and looked at her. “But you’re back. You’re really back! You came back again!” And he hugged her tightly, squeezing her as though afraid she’d vanish into thin air.

“I’m back,” she said wearily.  She didn’t feel back, but at the same time, she very clearly was here, with Rickon’s arms around her, painfully tight. She felt almost as though she were somewhere outside of her own body, and she couldn’t smell properly, for all her eyes could see colors again. 

Her stomach rumbled, and Rickon grinned up at her.  “You must be hungry.  We gave you broth and honey water as much as we could, but that’s not proper food. I think that we’ll have pushed through today’s rations, but I _bet_ they’ll make an exception now that you’re awake.  Sansa’s not that heartless.  Come on.”  He let go of her and bounded off the bed, excitement in his bright blue eyes. When she didn’t follow him, he paused, cocking his head at her, the way that Jon had when she’d been running, when he’d wondered what direction their paws would take them in next and he’d waited for her to choose.

“Jon,” she blurted out, and watched as Rickon’s smile melted off his face.  Sadness bubbled in his eyes—and anger too. “Jon’s body.  Was it…”  _Did they bring it back?_

“He’s been buried in the crypts,” Rickon said.  “Most of the wights dropped dead when the Night’s King fell, so they didn’t have to burn him, and when the Others tried to raise Jon from the dead they couldn’t for some reason.  And Sansa said you’d have it no other way, and that Jon died a hero, and hang the rules. If father buried Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna in there, there was a space for Jon as well.”  Arya felt her throat tighten and she chewed her lip, the way that Arya of House Stark did and she almost winced waiting for a slap that did not come.  _The Kindly Man can’t hurt me now.  And I will not cry_.  “She’s trying to find a stonemason who knows his likeness but…” Rickon shifted uncomfortably. “The one who finished father’s statue died in the battle, and I don’t know if there are other stonemasons around. We’re looking. But then they’d have to know what Jon looked like.”  Arya jerked her head up and down.  “The crypts then,” Rickon said, his voice sounding suddenly nervous, desperate.  “We’ll go to the crypts so you can see where he was buried, and then we’ll get you something to eat.  You must be starving.”

She was. Her stomach felt hollow, the way it had on the road from King’s Landing when she’d been driven to eat bugs. But she’d pushed through it then and she’d push through it now.  She took a deep breath and heaved herself from the bed.  She found her boots by the door, and shrugged into a woolen tunic and grabbed her fur lined cloak and gloves and she followed Rickon out into the castle.

The crypts were cold, and dark, and the doorway down beneath the keep felt like a gaping hole ready to swallow her alive. She grabbed a torch from the sconce nearby and descended, feeling like she was in a dream.

How many times had she been down here before?  When she’d been very little, Robb and Jon had played a prank on her and Bran, and Bran had cried, and Jon had been covered in flour.  Arya swallowed.  He’d have been just as pale when they buried him, wouldn’t he?  She shivered and blinked furiously.

She’d come down as soon as she’d come back, to find the carving of their father added to the long line of Stark lords and kings, his face long and somber and almost as she remembered it. She’d wanted to hug the stone when she’d seen it, as though hugging it would make him warm and alive and whole again, but she hadn’t because she wasn’t a stupid little girl. She’d known it wasn’t him. She’d known he’d never be alive again.  But seeing his eyes had made her scared.  _He always loved me_ , she had thought.  _Always.  But would he love me if he knew?_ He had loved her mother too, and Lady Catelyn’s body had been burned after, her ashes scattered in the river that this time, she might know rest. 

She didn’t know how long she stood staring at it, with the light from her torch making the stone almost look alive.  _Almost_.  _If the dead can come to life, why can’t stone?  s_ he thought.  _That’s stupid._

“Does it really look like him?” Rickon asked her, his voice halting.  “I—I can’t remember.”

Arya jerked her head in a nod.  “Yes.” Her voice didn’t sound her own, it should have been hers, but wasn’t.  “Yes, it looks like him.”

Rickon took her hand, and she saw him shifting between his feet out of the corner of her eye. “He looks like Jon.”

Arya nodded again. _Me and Jon.  We were the ones that looked like him._  Rickon did too a bit, though.  She wouldn’t have been able to tell when he was just a baby, but at ten, and tall, Rickon’s face was longer than Bran’s or Robb’s ever had been.  Not so long as hers or Jon’s, but long enough that she could say he looked like father.  She let go his hand and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. 

She wondered what it must have been like for him—so long alone with not so much memories of his pack, but stories of it.  He had never truly known pack, had he—not with just him and Shaggydog alone for so long. Shaggydog had tried to make Nymeria submit to him when first the two wolves had met again, but Nymeria had forced him back.  They remembered one another well, but were unused to one another, Arya remembered thinking. _Like all of us_.  _We all thought we knew one another but we just knew memories_ , and Rickon’s memories weren’t even his own. _He’ll have to learn how to run with a pack_.  It was a sad thought, a sad thing to have to learn.

“Jon’s this way.” Rickon’s voice echoed like a ghost’s through the crypts and she followed him to an empty alcove. There was a grave there, fresh—or nearly so.  She knelt down beside it and trailed her fingers through the dirt. 

“How long?”

“We buried him after the battle.  You’ve been gone two weeks.”

Arya’s fingers kept tracing through the dirt that covered Jon’s body.  She closed her eyes and saw his face, the way he’d smiled at her when she’d seen him again, when she’d found him again, after how many years since she and Yoren and Gendry and Hot Pie had left King’s Landing? _Little sister_ , he had said, and there’d been something odd in his voice, and something odder in his face—flesh that was a little too…a little too something to be quite right.  Not like mother’s had been, mottled and rotten, but…but something. Something had happened to Jon, but she hadn’t cared, because she was hugging him, holding him so tightly and there were hot tears on her face then and hot tears on her face now as she ran her fingers through the dirt.

 _If I’d stayed with Nymeria, I’d still be with him_ , she thought.  She knew that Ghost would be back when Nymeria came to Winterfell.  She knew that Ghost would be there, and so Jon would too. But it wouldn’t be the same. It would be so easy, she thought, to let herself seep back into Nymeria now, to collapse on Jon’s grave—both their bodies still while their minds ran and their voices joined the chorus of the pack. 

She felt Rickon’s hand on her shoulder, warm, and small, and callused, and she got to her feet again, trembling. 

“Let’s get food,” she said gruffly, and took Rickon’s hand again.  She knew he was watching her.  _They’re always watching me_ , she thought.  _Always wondering what I’ll do next.  And I don’t know._ Whatever she decided to do next never went as well as planned. If it did, then Jon would be alive.  And father. And mother—not as she’d been when she’d died again, but as she’d been when she had lived the first time.  

The kitchens were empty, but Rickon found her a very mealy apple from somewhere, and an oatcake. He flushed, as if embarrassed that it was all he could find.  “I know that we don’t have food, Rickon,” Arya said, rubbing his head absentmindedly.  “Just because I was…was asleep for a few weeks doesn’t mean that I’m not aware of how things were even _before_.”

“I know,” Rickon sighed. “I just…I thought there’d be more.” 

“This is perfect.” Arya said, and she ate the apple, core and all, despite the mealiness, and then ate the oat cake. It was enough. Enough for now—and for all she knew, they’d all starve soon anyway.

She almost felt better with food in her belly.  Food did that. She’d learned it through years of hunger—you were always happier when there was food in your stomach. Or at least, you were less miserable.  She looked at Rickon. He looked back up at her. “Where to now?” she asked him.

“Sansa will want to see you,” he said.  “She’s meeting with Bran’s lords bannermen, and King Tyrion, I think.  And Gendry will want to see you, wherever he is.” _If I want to see him._ Arya wasn’t sure that she did. She could hardly bear to think his name right now. “And Lord Dayne. He’s asked after you a lot as well.  And…and Old Nan. And Beth Cassel. And—and _everyone_.”  He was smiling up at her excitedly.

“Bran’s lords bannermen…is Bran back?”  It seemed too much to hope.  Perhaps that was what the trees had tried to whisper when she was in Nymeria. But even as she said the words, she knew he wasn’t.  She saw it in the way that Rickon’s expression crumpled. 

“He’s not.  He said he’d come back.  But he hasn’t. I don’t…” he looked miserable. “He said he’d be back.”

Arya sighed. “King Tyrion,” she said slowly. “Has he been crowned?”

Rickon nodded. “The Lords of the Seven Kingdoms declared him king.  I think they couldn’t not.  Sansa said that they would have had to—he’s got the crown’s debt in his pocket because he’s lord of Casterly Rock, _and_ he’s got a dragon too.  But Sansa says that Bran is King of Winter here. I don’t know why Bran’s king, but Horrible Harrold isn’t king, and Asha isn’t queen, but Sansa said that that’s how it had all been decided, and Sansa would know.”

Arya nodded. Sansa would know, but Arya could guess, and she was quite sure that the lack of food, north and south of the broken Neck had something to do with it all.  _Lannister gold can go far, buying food for all the kingdoms,_ she thought.  _And who knows how long winter will be here_.

“The days grow longer.” It wasn’t a question. She knew that the sun only rose for moments since the Night’s King had fallen.  It was more than it was before, and she knew how tantalizing the momentarily pink sky was, and how her pack had longed for longer days.

Rickon shook his head. “Yes,” he said. “But not fast enough.”

 _He’s too young to sound that resigned_ , Arya thought, running her hand through his hair again.  _I was too young too_. She could barely even remember being Rickon’s age.  She’d have been in the riverlands, at Harrenhal, with Gendry. 

She winced. She didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want anything to do with him, not now.  Not yet.  But if Arya knew anything, she knew that Gendry would want to see her.

* * *

Sansa was precisely where they had both expected her to be, seated below the dais where their father used to hold audience.  She sat tall, her hands clasped in her lap, listening evenly to whatever it was Lady Mormont was telling her.  Her eyes flicked to the doors when she saw Arya and Rickon come through it, and a brilliant smile lit her face.  Too often of late, Sansa’s smiles seemed almost masklike, as though they were a performance of some sort—at least to Arya’s eyes—but this one wasn’t the same. She got to her feet and crossed the room swiftly, and a moment later, Arya found herself wrapped in her sister’s arms. 

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” Sansa said, and Arya found herself patting her sister stiffly on the shoulder.

Arya swallowed. She could believe that. That, she could believe. That Sansa meant that. Surely she must. She wasn’t such a liar as all that, and her eyes had danced delightedly at the sight of her sister, in a way that they almost never had when Arya had been young. 

“You missed me?” She meant it to sound a joke, as Jon had joked when he’d come inside the castle walls before he’d fallen. But it didn’t sound humorous at all.

Sansa pulled away, and her eyes fell to somewhere near Arya’s hip.  “Yes, of course I did,” she said.  “We all did, did we not, my lords?” She raised her voice and what felt like a thunderous chorus of “ayes” filled the hall.  Arya looked around. 

It was more than just Maege Mormont sitting with her sister.  She saw Wylis Manderly, and Greatjon Umber, Ryam Locke and Jorah Cerwyn, Ironsmiths, Lakes, Holts, and Forresters, all watching her closely. Even, from a distance, the sight of Big Bucket Wull, his beard longer and more matted than when last Arya had seen him.  She did her best to smile at them all.

“Come,” Sansa said, taking her hand.  “Sit with me.”

There were only northmen in the hall, and it did not take long for the tension in the room to return.

The lords watched Sansa and Arya closely, and Arya even saw a few eyes dart to Rickon, who was standing next to Arya, still holding her hand as though afraid she would disappear. They waited silently, until Lord Flint cleared his throat.

“My lady,” he said, “I think it best to consider that perhaps King Tyrion might—ah—rethink his decision.”

Sansa’s eyebrows twitched and she turned to look at Arya.  “Bran’s lords bannermen were quite determined that Bran be king. No Stark would bend the knee to a Lannister—certainly not after Robb’s death, and our father’s.”

“Good,” she said, and somewhere in the room someone laughed approvingly.  Her eyes flicked towards the crowd, but she couldn’t tell who it was.  She did see some smiles there, but also some frowns—even the odd scowl.

“Yes,” Sansa said, but her tone implied that there was more, and Arya steeled herself. “Except that my lord husband, in acquiescing to the sovereignty of House Stark in the North without the shedding of blood, made note that it was not his responsibility to reward the valor of the northmen.  He has been quite generous with gold to the knights of the Vale, and the riverlands, and the rest of his kingdoms, but he says that it is not his place to reward the valor of our northmen.  He would be usurping Bran if he did so.”

“Though it was us that did most of the fighting,” said the Greatjon, to some murmured approval from the hall.  “It was our blood and holdfasts that fell in the snow.” 

“I know this well, my lords,” Sansa said, inclining her head, her neck arching prettily. “I know this.  I have known your losses.  House Stark has suffered as well.”  Arya felt her heart twist and she watched again as Jon fell to his knees, his mouth open, almost in surprise.  “But it is House Stark who rules you—by your own will, not House Lannister.”

“You would say that,” spat Lord Locke, glaring at Sansa.  “You’re his wife, aren’t you?  When winter is done, you’ll sail south and live in a pleasure palace and never know winter again.  It doesn’t affect you whether or not our people starve and die.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows, but it was Arya who responded, “Do you think my sister is likely to betray her blood?  To betray her family? She is a Stark of Winterfell.  She is a direwolf.”

She did not look at Sansa. She refused to. There was no need.  Once, she might have needed to, but she didn’t anymore.  Once, she might have wondered if Sansa was truly her pack, even if her father told her she was, because she remembered all too well Sansa saying she didn’t remember, and Mycah, and Lady dying.  She remembered too a little girl who’d shouted at a king and a prince and hadn’t thought of how they might react to it as well.  _I am different_ , Arya thought. _Sansa is too.  And she won’t betray us.  She_ won’t _._ She’d proven that already, when they’d stood in the snows by the Trident, together again for the first time in years.  No one had believed Arya.   Why would they?  It was a tall tale—King’s Landing destroyed, exploded in green fire seen through the eyes of wolves.  And Sansa had looked at her, and Arya had prepared herself, knowing how mad she sounded, knowing that Lady had died, and Sansa had never known what it was to see through the eyes of her direwolf.  _She believed me then, without knowing anything at all, because I was pack._

Lord Locke seemed wholly unperturbed by Arya.  What did it matter that she’d fought at his side, that she’d saved his son’s life when wights surrounded him?  To him, she was only a little girl of six and ten. _He speaks for Lord Manderly_.  She knew it well.  Lord Manderly protested loyalty, and always had, but Lord Locke spoke for him. _He wants Sansa gone so he can rule as regent through Rickon_. She remembered Jon’s quiet gaze that had silenced Lord Manderly’s proposition that Rickon be named Lord of Winterfell until Bran’s return, and the quiet statement that it was a discussion for after the war. 

And after the war was now, it would seem, and if Lord Manderly smiled and simpered at Sansa, it was Lord Ryam Locke who growled.  “She’s a Lannister,” he said.  “So long as she’s married to him, she’s a Lannister.  And if she’s not married to him, she’ll marry another and then she’ll be someone else.  A Stark of Winterfell?”

“Then what am I, my lord?” Arya said.  She got to her feet. He was much taller than she was, even when she stood, but she did not care about that.  She’d seen in Braavos that it was the quicker cat, the smarter cat, that got the rat—not the big fat toms.  “Am I not also a Stark of Winterfell?”

That caught him off guard, and she saw him cast a glance about.  She was Arya of the Thousand Wolves, Ned Stark’s Little Girl for whom the North had rallied, even though it had really been Jeyne Poole and not Arya. She had brought the Twins to its knees, and had thrown the Boltons into the sea with Nymeria’s pack. She was Lord Snow’s beloved little sister.  For all she was a girl, and smaller than he, what did he have to his name that she did not have tenfold? 

She was a Stark of Winterfell.  And if she was, then so was Sansa, for all she’d been married to a Lannister.

Lord Locke looked about, but saw that not a man in the hall would follow him to this fight. Out of the corner of her eye, Arya saw Lord Manderly standing as still as his rolls of fat—swelling with each breath—allowed him. _Good_ , Arya thought.  She bit back a smile.  That was how it was in the pack.  If anyone challenged Nymeria, she beat him at his own game and put him in his place.

It was Maege Mormont’s voice that cut the silence, and Arya felt her body relax as she turned to face her.  “If King Tyrion will not provide us with gold to buy our food, that responsibility then falls on House Stark, our good little King Bran.”  She turned to Sansa.  “Is that not so?”  Her question was not unkind. 

“It is,” Sansa said.

“And how, pray, does House Stark plan to pay us?  It’s not like your coffers are full.” Lord Flint said.  “You have to rebuild your own keep as we have to rebuild ours, and Lord Bolton made off with the castle’s wealth—what wealth Theon Turncloak had not taken from it.  You’ll starve yourselves as well.”

“House Stark rewards good and leal service,” Sansa said calmly, though Arya could see the way that her knuckles were white against her skirts.  “I would first confer with my brother before answering that question.”  She stood, and swept from the hall.  Arya went with her, though she was careful to send a glare at Lord Locke when she passed him.

The cold air hit her in full force, and she flinched.  She missed the fur on her face, keeping her warm against the wind as she ran with her brother and her cousins.  The wind whistled in her ears and…she grinned.

She knew that sound.

“The pack’s back,” she told Sansa, and, instead of making her way to the godswood and Bran’s face in the weirwood, she went to the main gates of the castle, watching as the guardsmen opened the gate to let Nymeria and Ghost come inside, while the rest of the pack whined and waited. They did not like it when Nymeria went off on her own, but they knew better than to go into the man rock.  Only the direwolves were welcome there. They would sleep beneath the walls of Winterfell, and perhaps run circles around the castle. Now that there was no threat, they might even play in the snow together. 

Arya went to her wolf and buried her face in Nymeria’s fur.  She smelled familiar, though faintly so.  Arya’s nose was not so good as it was when she was in Nymeria’s skin, and so Nymeria’s scent was less obvious to her—especially as the cold began to numb her nose and freeze the hairs in her nostrils.  Nymeria’s fur warmed it though, and the direwolf licked her.  It tickled, and she giggled.

Then she turned to Jon and wrapped her arms around the wolf.  He nuzzled her hair and licked her face as well, and she heard Nymeria growling behind her.

“Don’t be silly, Nymeria. It’s Jon.  Ghost is Jon’s and you are mine.  I won’t trade you away.”

She felt Ghost’s pulse, strong and steady, under her hands as she buried her fingers in Jon’s fur. “Welcome home,” she whispered to him, and his teeth clicked together.  She’d forgotten he was mute.  She wished he weren’t.  Perhaps if Ghost weren’t mute, he could learn to talk, the way that Bran could make the ravens talk sometimes.  Perhaps she’d try and make Nymeria talk when next she wore her skin.  She wondered if Jon could write, could trace words in the snow so that Arya could read them.

“Shall we go to the godswood?  Bran will be there,” she said, and Jon’s head nodded, and the three of them, Arya, Jon, and Nymeria, went together towards the godswood, Arya’s fingers still buried in Jon’s fur.

It was at the gateway into the godswood that she heard him, his voice carrying strong over the icy wind.

“The wolves are back. Someone must tell Lady Sansa.”

“She knows. Everyone knows. It’s hard to miss a thousand wolves.”  There weren’t a thousand anymore, Arya thought sadly.  So many had been killed.  Though she knew that there were many who would say that two hundred wolves was too many, much less the six hundred that remained.

“But that means _she’s_ back.”

“Aye.  She’s awake.  Little Prince Rickon was taking her about earlier. Did you not see her?”

Arya tried to move faster with the wolves, because if she could make it into the godswood, she’d have a little more time.  She could rest with Jon, and speak to Bran, and wouldn’t have to worry about stupid, stubborn Gendry whom she wasn’t even sure she wanted to see anyway.

But she was not so lucky, because she heard him call her name a moment later, his voice booming loudly through the yard.  “Arya!”

She closed her eyes and paused.  Jon looked at her, then over his shoulder at where she was sure Gendry was hurrying towards her, and a moment later, she felt his arms around her, the warmth of him pressing into her back, so hot against the cold that for a moment she forgot that she was furious with him and turned to wrap her arms around him as well. He smelled like Gendry did, even if that smell was buried beneath layers of wool and leather, and that smell was so much to her—it was terror in the riverlands, it was the liberation of the riverlands, it was not saving Jon.

She jerked away from him, glaring, and her glare cut short his, “I’m glad you’re—” He gaped at her, as though thoroughly unaware of why she might be angry with him.  “Arya?”

“Why did you stop me?” she demanded. 

His eyes bulged in surprise and he snorted.  “Did you want to die as well?”

She could hit him, she really could.  But he was so padded in wool and leather that he probably wouldn’t feel a thing, and even if she smacked him on the head, he was too stupid to get the point.

“I could have saved him,” she snapped.

“You couldn’t have. You would have died,” Gendry said stubbornly, crossing his arms.

She glowered at him and he rolled his eyes and reached for her elbow.  She wrenched it from his grasp.  “You leave me be,” she snapped and turned on her heel.

“Arya!” he shouted after her, and for a moment it sounded like it had when he’d shouted at her to stay put as she sprinted out into the snow.   “You would have died!”

But she didn’t care what he said, not even a little. She wove her fingers through Jon’s fur again and began to walk.

* * *

Things were different in the godswood.

They always had been. Ever since she was little, it was different here. It was a space that was imbued with the North, her father had said when he’d caught her and Bran playing in the trees. But it was more than that.

How many times had she come here as a little girl, looking for her father?  She’d found him too, sitting before the heart tree, whetting Ice, or praying, or simply sitting and thinking.  She’d sat with him, and asked him questions or listened to his stories.  Sometimes, she would see Bran peeking out of the bushes, wondering if he could make a dash towards one of his climbing trees.  Whenever she saw him, she’d distract father so he could climb.

Maybe she shouldn’t have.

Maybe if she’d made them stop Bran climbing, he wouldn’t have fallen and he’d have come south to King’s Landing and…and what?  Been held hostage for Robb’s loyalty, the way that Sansa was?  Kept by the Lannisters throughout the duration of the war? Or, maybe he would have escaped and been with her and Gendry and Yoren and all the rest, but she couldn’t be sure of that.  _If he hadn’t gone north, we wouldn’t have survived_ , she thought.  And it wouldn’t have mattered if Jon had died defending them all—they’d all be dead as well, her and Rickon and Sansa and even stupid Gendry and his stupid…didn’t he see? Didn’t he get it?

She found Sansa and Rickon kneeling before the heart tree.  Sansa’s eyes were closed and her arm was around Rickon’s shoulder, Shaggydog was lying at their feet, and Rickon was talking at the tree, knowing that somewhere, far away, Bran would hear.

Arya knelt as well, and Jon and Nymeria sat on either side of her.

 _Arya_ , she heard the trees whisper in Bran’s voice, and she smiled at the tree, willing herself to see Bran’s face in the carved wood. Sometimes she could. Sometimes it was so clearly Bran that her heart ached.  _Arya._

“I’m here,” she said to the tree.  She’d long shed the silliness she had once felt speaking to the trees.  “I’m all right.”

 _Good.  Arya.  Arya I need your help._ She’d never heard him sound so panicked, not when there had been armies of reanimated corpses descending upon Winterfell, or when the sun had set and it wasn’t sure that it would ever rise again.  Could gods even sound panicked?  Bran did, though, and she felt short of breath.  _I can’t leave here.  I need to.  I need to soon.  Please—Arya, I can’t walk.  I need you to come get me.  Before it’s too late._  



	3. Gendry; Arya

Well, he supposed he wasn’t entirely surprised, he thought to himself, climbing out of bed the next morning.  His head was still reeling from the glare that she’d given him, as though he was truly vile, as if he was something to revile. 

He wasn’t entirely surprised.  She was harsh, sometimes.  Just not with him.

And what was he supposed to have done, he asked himself for the hundredth time, perhaps? Let her run and get herself killed?  Because that wasn’t bloody likely.  Not even a little bit.  So what if she missed her brother.  Gendry missed little Eustace, who’d been a few years younger than him and another apprentice smith at Harrenhal.  Arya had dragged him away from Eustace, and who knew if Eustace had lived or died…

It was a shoddy comparison. He’d liked Eustace. Arya had _loved_ Jon. 

But loved him enough to die alongside him?  She surely wasn’t that stupid. 

And yet she could be.

He sighed to himself, and ran his hands over his face.

She really and truly could be.  She didn’t go halfway, Arya Stark.  She never had, and she never would.  It was what he liked so much about her.  So no—he wasn’t bloody surprised. And she’d rage at him and call him stupid, and he’d call her stupid right back, and at some point, she’d realize that he was right and she was wrong, and then she’d call him stupid even more loudly than before but she’d drop it. 

That was how it went. And he’d be the same if he was the one who was wrong.  That was how it went.  That was how it’d been when prissy Lord Dayne had shown up again, though he’d scampered off after Lord Beric had died.  He’d come back with a new cloak and a huge pale sword slung across his back, and Arya had been right—prissy Lord Dayne and his stupid pale sword slung across his back _had_ been useful. He didn’t have to like him. He just had to get on with him.

So he got on.

And now all this was over, prissy Lord Dayne could scamper back off to Dorne with his fancy sword, and leave Gendry be, and never look at Arya again.

Gendry was quite certain that he was in love with Arya—he prissy Lord Dayne, not he, Gendry. He, Gendry, didn’t like that. Because it wasn’t as though prissy Lord Dayne had actually known her well at all.  He just met her once, and then when she came back, he took a shine to her.  He’d not been scared for his life with her, she hadn’t gone back for him— _twice_. Dayne was her friend, and she’d only ever be friends with him.  Arya made friends easily—that much was true, but that didn’t mean that she _wanted_ Lord Dayne’s attention.

She didn’t even want Gendry’s right now.

Just like everyone else.

He wasn’t blind. He’d noticed how no one wanted to be around him.  Arya had been the only person who’d ever withstood his blackest moods.  Lem and Tom used to tell him he’d lose whatever friends he made by lashing out if he wasn’t careful, and they weren’t wholly wrong, given how few of his brothers-in-arms sought him out these days. Brooding, they called him. Brooding over Arya.

Like always.

He’d waited near on a _year_ at that bloody inn, hoping she’d make it back there at some point in the end. And now she was angry with him. He’d never thought of what he’d do when the war was won, but he’d always thought that he’d be wherever she was.  And now she was angry with him, and probably didn’t want him around, just like the rest of them.

“Morning,” he said to Pollan the cook as he made his way into the kitchens.  Pollan grunted as he shoved a stale oat cake and a slice of something Gendry couldn’t even begin to identify into Gendry’s hand. Gendry raised his eyebrows at it.

“You’ll eat it,” Pollan glowered at him.

“I was planning on it,” Gendry said dryly, and he left the kitchen, walking headlong into Edd Tollett upon passing through the door.

“Careful there. Wouldn’t want to drop your food. Though that might improve the flavor a notch, eh?  What does frozen dirt taste like?  Imagine we’ll be finding out soon.”

Gendry knew what dirt tasted like, but he didn’t say as much to Tollett.  “Watch where you’re going,” he sniped instead.

“I will. When I know where that is. What does the Night’s Watch do now that we’ve no Wall to protect?  I’ve lost my life’s purpose.”

“Go home, I suppose,” Gendry suggested, trying to brush past Tollett.

“And I’m sure that I’ll be welcome,” Tollett replied.  “I imagine I’ll be as welcome as King Bran when he returns. Wish I had a nice big sister to bring me home.”

Gendry froze and stared. “She’s not,” he said. Arya wouldn’t be that stupid to go out in the middle of a frozen wasteland to rescue her brother. She’d die of exposure, if not starvation.

“Has she changed her mind? Last I’d heard she was asking how to feed a horse when snow covers the ground, and how much feed she should bring with her.”  Gendry took off before Tollett had even finished the sentence. 

She wasn’t being stupid, she wasn’t, he told himself as hurried towards the door.  She would not be so stupid as to plan on going on her own.  She’d bring Nymeria. And probably Jon Snow’s direwolf as well, if her brother’s spirit was inside the thing.  But if he knew her, and he knew her, she would go off with just the wolves, and leave behind any ounce of human help she might possibly need.  She’d say she wouldn’t want to expose people to the harsh winter storms, the unknown, the coldness—especially not after they had just won.  She’d guise it under caring for everyone else, looking after her pack, but when it came down to it—

Her grief would have turned her into something else.  He’d seen it before—when she’d been all withdrawn after her father died. _Grief can turn any man to a whole new path_ , Thoros had once told him. _The Lord of Light does not just take a life, he changes the lives of those left behind_.  Arya’s grief…

She felt guilty. Of that he was sure. Guilty that Jon had died, and she had lived.  But that didn’t mean she had to go and be all stupid and noble—not when it was stupid, damned nobility that had gotten Jon killed in the first place—not to mention her father, and her mother, and her brother Robb. 

He found her in the armory, hefting a bow in one hand, and talking to the armorer.

“And it won’t get too brittle in the cold?” she was asking.

“Shouldn’t do. Mind you, I’d be sure to bring extra bowstrings—those are sure to snap if they get too cold. They’ll freeze up.”

“And—”

“Will you excuse us for a moment?” Gendry interjected, grabbing Arya’s arm.  She shook him off.

“Leave me be. I’m talking with Wyl.”

“And I have to talk to you.”

“You really don’t.”

“Arya—you’re not going on your own.”

That got her to turn around.  That got her to turn around with a glare—not the same glare as she’d had for him the day before, but a glare nonetheless.

But this was the sort of glare he could work with.  This was the sort of glare she’d given him when they’d crossed the Trident together, years after setting out to find it in the first place.

“Yeah?  Seems like I am.”

“Why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you bring someone? Anyone?”

“How did you know that I was going on my own anyway?”

“God, Arya. I’m not an idiot,” Gendry snapped.  Arya’s eyes widened, and he saw her mind leap to her brother Bran, before he said, “Arya, I know you better than to assume you are going to do the smart thing.”

“I always do the smart thing,” she flared.  “It’s not _smart_ to drag people into the cold and the unknown.  Bran said that he saw that I would make it to him.  So what’s the problem?”

“The problem?” Gendry gaped at her.  “The problem is that Bran sometimes doesn’t see everything perfectly.  You said it yourself—sometimes he sees how things _might_ go, not how they _will_.  What if you freeze to death in your sleep?”

“I will have Nymeria. She’ll be more than warm enough.”

“And what if you slip and break your neck?”

“I’m a perfectly good climber, thank you.”

“And what if you starve?”

“Another mouth isn’t like to help me stay alive in that case.”

“Arya—”

“I’m going, Gendry.”

“And I’m going too.”

“You are not.”

“I am.  You can’t stop me.”  If she was going to be stubborn, he was too.  She wasn’t going to go off dying in the wilderness on her own—not after he’d saved her life.  He bloody well wouldn’t let her. 

He saw it—saw it for just a moment, buried between a glare.  There was some flicker of something, and he knew that she knew that she couldn’t stop him either.  _She’s grateful for it_. That was something. Even if she was furious with him, she still cared that he cared.  And that was all he needed.  That, and to keep her from freezing solid beneath the snow with her sword in her hand. 

“Well, it’s on you to convince Sansa to get us two horses’ worth of rations,” she said, turning on her heel and marching towards the door. 

“Fine,” he snapped.

“Fine,” she snapped right back over her shoulder.

The door opened right before she got to it, and she stopped just short of walking into Ned Dayne.

Gendry suppressed a groan. Of course he’d be here right now.

“I thought I’d find you down here,” Dayne said, smiling at Arya.  He was taller than her and she had to look up at him. Gendry was taller than Dayne, at least.  At least he was that. “Queen Sansa says that you are going north to bring the king home.”  Gendry saw the way Arya’s eyes flickered when he called Sansa a queen. “I thought I would offer my sword to you and ride with you.  Seems to me the Sword of the Morning might be of service in the darkness.”

Arya smiled at him even as Gendry felt his own glower deepening.  He heard the armorer moving about his business behind him, and he wished the man would disappear.  He didn’t want anyone to see this.  _It was supposed to just be me and Arya_ , he thought, _But she wouldn’t leave Hot Pie and Lommy and Weasel behind.  And now she’ll bring along Ned bloody Dayne_.

“You’ve already helped end the night, Ned,” she said.  Her voice wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either, and not nearly cold enough for Gendry’s liking.  “I wouldn’t bring you along.”

“You shouldn’t go alone.” On that, at least, they could agree.

“I won’t be. Gendry’s coming with me. He’s too bloody stubborn about staying behind.”

Dayne looked at him with his stupid nearly-purple eyes.  “Is he?”

“Yes.  I don’t think more should come.  Gendry’ll already slow me down, and Bran said that there isn’t much time.”  Gendry shouldn’t swell at that—shouldn’t be pleased that Bran didn’t have much time, and that meant that Ned Dayne would slow them down, and so he couldn’t come. But he did.

“I wouldn’t slow you down. But of course—if that’s what you would wish.  I only thought to be of use before I left for Dorne.”  Gendry caught the peevishness in Dayne’s voice, and he was sure that if he did, Arya would too.  “Will you be leaving soon?”

“Just as soon as we can,” Arya said.  She didn’t sound excited, and not eager so much as determined, set.  Ordinarily, Gendry would have grinned, but she was talking to Dayne.  “Once we have our rations and horses and supplies and all the rest.”

Dayne nodded. “If there is any way I can be of service,” his voice trailed away hopefully, as if wishing that Arya would think better of Gendry going along and let him take his place instead. Gendry scowled at him, but Arya, if she noticed that, didn’t care. 

Instead, she gave Dayne a warm smile and reached out and patted Dayne on the arm.  “If…if you wouldn’t mind…” She cast Gendry a look that he couldn’t understand, then past him to the armorer, who had, finally, gone into another room, and she began speaking lowly, quickly, “I would have you stay—at least until Bran is back.  I worry about Sansa and Rickon, especially once King Tyrion sets out to go South again. They called her Lady Lannister—Bran’s bannermen.  And they would not so long as I am here, but when I am gone, I fear she might not have many friends—many true friends, I mean. She might make them—she is graceful and good and kind and gentle and intelligent, and they will see that…but it’s…”

“You worry for your sister.”

Arya nodded, and Ned Dayne smiled down at her.  “Then I shall stay and be a friend to her, devoid of any northern politicking. At least so long as I am able. My Dornishmen hate this winter, but we are ill equipped to travel back through the snow until White Harbor’s port opens again.” He bowed slightly.

“Thank you, Ned.” Arya stood on her tip-toes and kissed him on the cheek.  Gendry saw the way his smile brightened and he pushed past them.  “Well, while you’re planning your new friendship, I shall see if I can get extra rations for us,” he said loudly.

“Fine,” Arya snapped after him, her anger flaring again.  “And if you don’t succeed, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

What did it matter if she’d given Ned Dayne a kiss on the cheek, he told himself.  What did it bloody matter?  He was the one going north with her, because he’d gotten there first and Ned Dayne was a bloody pushover, and he was stubborn as a bull.  Stubborn enough to deal with her, that was sure enough.  He wrapped his cloak more tightly around him, and pushed out into the cold.

* * *

Arya went and found Beth Cassel and Old Nan before the dinner rations were provided.  When she went into the room where she found Beth sitting with Nan, knitting and telling her of the day, a pang shot through her.   _And I thought I was going to spend days here with them.  That I’d have time to…_ she didn’t dare even think the word “mourn.”  She couldn’t. Especially not now, not when there were people in need of saving, when there was  _Bran_ in need of saving.

She’d kicked herself six times in the godswood after he’d spoken with her, and had done so again every time she’d gone about finding rations and supplies for the trek north.  It had felt oddly normal, actually.  She’d dreamed often of Winterfell, of lazy days, or busy ones even, in this castle that was her home.  But she was much more used to the road. Going back out on it was what she’d done for years now.  And though it pained her to leave her home behind again she’d do anything for Bran.

But at the same time, for all it felt normal to be preparing for the road again, that didn’t mean that it felt good leaving. Some part of her ached at the concept that she’d _just_ gotten here, and now she had to leave again.  She hadn’t even had a day to breathe after the war had ended before she’d begun for her next adventure.  _I did, though_ , she thought suddenly.  _I went into the wolf for weeks.  And left Bran alone, losing days that he needs to live._ And she kicked herself again.

She should be saying her hellos, not her goodbyes. But how could she have even wanted to say hello, when Bran was trapped and needed her help?

“You’re leaving,” Beth said, her brown eyes going wide. 

“I’m staying girl, don’t be silly.  My bones will lie beneath this castle,” Old Nan said grumpily.  Sometimes her eyesight wasn’t as good as it used to be. _She’s so old_ , Arya thought.

“She meant me, Nan,” Arya said, gently, sitting down at the foot of the bed next to Old Nan.

“Arya?” Nan asked.

“Yes,” Arya said, taking her hand. 

“You shouldn’t climb. You’ll fall and break your neck. You’re not in the mountains anymore.  The castle wasn’t made to be climbed like that.”

“I don’t climb, Nan. Bran climbs.”

“Bran?  Brandon’s dead.”

“No—not Brandon. _Bran_. My brother.”

“Your brothers are in the mountains with the Flints.”

 _She thinks I’m my father’s grandmother,_ Arya thought suddenly. Bran had used to complain that Old Nan sometimes thought he was a different Brandon Stark.  Arya had almost forgotten there was another Arya. She looked up at Beth, who shrugged.

“I won’t climb anymore,” Arya said gently.

“Good.  Lyarra would be sad if you fell.”

Arya felt her throat constrict.  She wondered if Old Nan would live long enough for Arya to see her again.  She was so old, and Arya knew the journey would take months. Bran had said that it had taken him nearly six months to get to his cave. _But that was on Hodor’s back, and on foot.  I’ll be on horseback, even if the snow is thicker…_ She shuddered. Six months there, and then back again.  Even if Gendry was with her, it would be grueling. 

 _Worth it, for Bran_ , she reminded herself, feeling yet another pang of guilt. 

“Don’t frown like that, girl,” Old Nan was saying, patting her cheek.  “You’re so pretty when you smile.  This is your home now.  I know you miss the mountains, but this is your home.”

 _This is my home_ , she thought.  _And I’m bringing Bran back to it._ There. She felt herself swell. That should be how she should feel.  Bringing Bran home, rescuing him from the darkness of his cave, another brave adventure for Arya Thousand Wolves.

“I know,” she said gently. “I’ll…I’ll make it as good as I can.”

Old Nan made a contented clucking sound, and Beth smiled at Arya before her eyes turned wistful. “You’re off on another adventure.  You always had such adventures.”

“They aren’t as fun as they sound,” Arya said, trying not to sound too harsh.  It was true, though.  Riding through the riverlands at the head of a mighty pack of wolves sounded easier and more exciting than it had been.

Beth nodded quickly. “I know.  It’s just…” and she squeezed Arya’s hand. “Better than anything I could do. Part of me wishes I could go with you.”

“You should form a line. Gendry, then Ned, then you.”

“Oh, I don’t really wish to go,” Beth said quickly.  “It will be dangerous, and I’ve never done anything like it, and I have a place here. I’ll look after Nan and help around the castle the way…the way my father would have wanted.  Not everyone can be a hero.”

“Not everyone wants to be,” Arya muttered to herself.  Then she got to her feet and kissed Nan’s cheek.  “You’ll tell Rickon every story you know until I’m back?”

“ _Rodrik_.   Don’t you know your on husband’s name? I’ve been telling him stories since before he knew who you were.”  Arya bit back a grin.   It was funny, hearing Old Nan confuse Rickon for her husband.  Besides, who would Arya even want to marry? She couldn’t imagine herself with a husband, certainly not _now_. She wanted to curl up in a ball with her siblings for the next few years until spring had washed away their ills. She wanted to watch Winterfell being rebuilt, see the northmen thrive and recover.  But she couldn’t stay in Winterfell now. She couldn’t even begin to think it, not while Bran needed her.  Winterfell wouldn’t be Winterfell if she couldn’t see Bran smiling his smile that always seemed to make everyone around him happy, for he was always the very heart of everything.  _Bran_ , she thought.  _Bran.  Bran needs to come home._

* * *

Gendry felt like he was floating.  Not the good kind of floating, the sort that meant you were happy.  The purposeless floating of someone who didn’t know what to do, or where to do it. 

He’d talked Pollan into giving him and Arya extra rations, and had even found him and Arya a pair of good garrons to take them north.  He’d gotten extra furs—since he was sure that Arya would have relied on the warmth of the wolves, which didn’t account for being separated from them in case of danger, and had found a pan and a pot in which to melt snow over a fire for water. 

He’d checked everything he could think of for survival in the winter and now felt as though he had nothing left to do.  He did not like it.

If Arya weren’t angry with him, he’d have found her and helped her do whatever she was doing, or just sat with her, quiet, enjoying the peace of the other’s company. He was tempted to go and do that now, just to make her pay attention to him, to try and force her to understand, but he didn’t.  Instead, he made his way back to the room that he shared with the other soldiers. He trimmed his nails, his beard, his hair.  He packed away what few possessions he had to his name, deciding what to leave behind and what to bring, and then he sat down on his pallat and stared at the wall, breathing.

No one came and looked for him.  The men who shared his room didn’t even come back to rest or sleep—they had some sorts of duties. And Gendry should too, shouldn’t he?  Guard duty, or something. But no.  Technically, he didn’t serve House Stark. And once the battle had ended Sansa had assigned him nothing in hopes that his presence would help Arya awaken.

She was awake now. And Gendry did have a duty soon, going north with her, helping her stay alive.  But that wasn’t happening yet.  That was in the distance.  Now, he had nothing.

He could, he supposed, go and help in the forge.  The smiths were working on bolts, and hinges, and locks, and the like, and Gendry didn’t know how to make those, but he could at least help work the bellows.

The thought made him feel cold, though.  He was a knight now, not a smith.  He shouldn’t have to…Or perhaps he _should_ have to. Perhaps he should never leave the forge, forget his place in the world and think he’s better than the rest just because Lord Beric tapped him on the shoulders and told him he was a knight of the Hollow Hill.

He hated that he thought he was better than that, better than bellows, even though he was too old to be an apprentice now, and it was always the apprentices and not the full smiths that worked the bellows.  But even the thought of setting foot in the forge now that he was not needed there…

 _I_ am _needed there_ , he thought angrily at himself.  _There’s no such thing as too many blacksmiths.  That’s what would have kept you alive at Harrenhal and you know it._

But he didn’t feel a smith anymore—not as he had when he was young.  Something was different now.  It was like a shoe that didn’t fit him, was too small for his foot, and pained him when he tried to force himself inside. 

But if being a blacksmith was an old shoe that didn’t fit anymore, being whatever he was now…it was a new shoe, one that didn’t fit and was too big, maybe… He didn’t know. He wasn’t one for stupid thoughts like this.  Arya was. She’d come back from Braavos like that. He’d tried to understand where she’d gotten it, but she always bit her lip and didn’t say a word. She never talked about Braavos, and he wondered what had happened there.

The door banged open and Jem walked in.  Jem was one of the few people he had met who was taller than he was, and he grunted at Gendry, taking in the sight of him and his packed things.  “Going somewhere?” Jem asked.

“North. With Arya Stark.”

Jem looked at him and shrugged.  “Well, better you than me,” he said, and he shrugged out of his leathers and lay down on his pallat, back to Gendry.

No words of luck, no “I’ll miss you.”  No one ever missed Gendry except Arya.

* * *

“How long will it take you?” Sansa asked her that night.  They all three of them lay in the bed her mother had once occupied—her, and Sansa, and Rickon.  She tried not to imagine her mother there, smiling as she ran her a brush through Sansa’s hair and listening to Arya tell her of what she had learned that day from Maester Luwin.  It was better to think of her mother that way than the other, in truth, but it hurt all the same.  _Mother, and father, and Robb, and Jon._

She wouldn’t let anything happen to Bran.  She wouldn’t. Bran she could save—she _could_. 

“Bran said that it took him less than half a year to go from Winterfell to the cave,” Arya said, “but that was before winter.  Before winter and without horses—just him on Hodor’s back, with Meera and Jojen Reed.”

“Why couldn’t Meera and Hodor help him back?” Sansa asked.  Arya chewed her lip.  She hadn’t thought to ask.

“He must be too big for Hodor to carry now,” Arya said, thoughtfully.  She was near seven-and-ten now, and Bran was only two years younger than her.  Even if he was crippled and so perhaps he wouldn’t have as much muscle as Gendry—no one had as much muscle as Gendry—he might still be too big for Hodor to bring all the way south in snow and ice.

Sansa made a humming noise. “And you’ll be careful?”

“Yes,” Arya said firmly. She’d have Nymeria with her—and Jon, and Nymeria would be able to smell any danger.  Besides, with the Others gone now, the only dangers in the woods were human, or bears, and Arya could deal easily with either. So long as Gendry didn’t do something stupid that meant she’d have to go and save him again.

“A year, then,” Sansa said. “A year.”  It seemed as though she were running through a whole host of thoughts in her head, but she did not share them with Arya. “I do not think I could provide a year’s worth of feed for your horses.  Nor could you carry it with you, without taking several packhorses.”

Arya shook her head. “Each horse we bring extra would expand the amount of food we’d need, and Winterfell can’t afford that. You have horses here to keep alive.”

“Horses we can stable,” Sansa added.  “Your horses might well freeze on the way north if you’re not careful.”

“There will be abandoned houses and castles south of the Wall,” she said hopefully.  _Or where the Wall was_ , she thought.  She’d never seen it in the end.  Not once. Jon had said it was spectacular, but she’d never seen it.  “And North of the Wall…there’ll be wildling villages and such.”

“Yes, but that’s not the same as a proper stable,” Sansa said.  She sounded almost like her old, bossy self.  It stung.  “I don’t know much about horses, but I can tell that much is true.  You won’t find inns with feed, either.”

“I won’t be taking some of Ned’s sandsteeds,” Arya argued.  “We’ll be taking northern horses.  Winter horses.”

“Winter horses need to eat, Arya.”

“And they will. I have actually thought this through.”  _To some extent.  Enough._ “Along the kingsroad the ice and snow will be less thick, because of forests and mountains and all the rest.  They can break through it with their hooves to graze.  It’s not like our horses haven’t eaten frozen grass before.”

“Six feet of snow, though?” Sansa sounded quizzical. 

“It won’t be that deep.”

“Yes it—”

“The sun shines a little more every day, and we haven’t had a heavy storm since the battle ended.”

“Bran can’t control the weather, Arya.”

“No, he can’t, but the days are getting longer, if only barely.  There _are_ days now.” She had to believe it—she had to.  It was better than admitting the alternative: that the sun might melt the snow enough only to have it freeze overnight, and grow harder for the horses to break. “And when we’re north of the Wall, there’ll be trees with moss on them.  If we’re out of feed, the horses will eat that.”

“They’ll die underneath you.”

“Then we’ll switch to walking, and use their flesh to not starve ourselves.”  She didn’t like it—not at all.  She couldn’t imagine how far through the snow she and Gendry would have to go to get to Bran, and by foot…they’d get frostbite if they weren’t careful.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Sansa said quietly.  “I don’t want to lose you and Bran both.  I—Can’t you take a ship part of the way?  It feels foolhardy to _ride_ north on your own like this, Arya.”

“It’s not foolhardy!” Arya insisted at the same time as Rickon.  She looked at her little brother, who looked back at her.

“Bran,” Rickon said. “Bran needs to come home.   He said he’d come home. But he hasn’t yet.”

“Of course,” Sansa said quickly.  “I didn’t mean to imply that Bran wasn’t the most important thing to think about. Simply that…” Her voice trailed away, and Arya spoke.

“What captain would go up the shivering sea without hope of a harbor to dock in?  The coastline’s probably nearly frozen as well, and I don’t want to fall through ice if I can’t help it.  And even if that weren’t true, how would Bran guide us out on the open sea?  We’ll pass under the weirwoods as we make our way north, and we’ll be able to speak with him.  We can’t do that if we’re on a ship.  We won’t even know where to land, and we’d _still_ have to travel inland through the snow and ice and darkness.

“I won’t die, Sansa,” Arya promised.  Then she snorted bitterly. “Gendry won’t let me.”

Sansa looked torn between wanting to frown and wanting to smile.   At last, she sighed.  “I’m glad he’s going with you.  It’s fitting.  He’ll take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Arya snapped.  Of course Sansa would think it was a good idea for Gendry to come too. Even Arya knew it was probably wise to bring someone else with her.  But did it have to be Gendry?  He could stay here… _And do what? And be what?_ It hardly seemed fair that he go back to being a blacksmith now that he was a knight and a hero of war. But surely he had _some_ sort of place here he could occupy while she went north, didn’t he?

She shrugged the thought away.  She didn’t want to think about Gendry—not right now, not while she was still angry with him. She didn’t like thinking of Gendry that way.

Arya snuggled down deeper into the furs and wrapped her arms around Rickon.  “And you,” she said.  “I promise I’ll be back.  With Bran.  So don’t you worry about me, all right?”

Rickon chewed his lip, and Arya bit back a grin.  “You came back the last time,” he said, “You’ve come back before.  The others didn’t.  But you did.”

“That’s right—I did.” She ran her hands through his hair.  “Now, I have something very important for you to do for me while I’m gone.”

Rickon cocked his head, and Arya took a deep breath.  She had thought about this carefully—very carefully.  “I’m going to need you to look after my wolf pack while I’m gone.  They can’t come north with me—they’d die—they’d starve.  There may be game enough for me and Gendry, if we’re very, _very_ lucky, but not for five hundred wolves. But I can’t have them running lose across the North either.”  _And you’ll feel what it is to be part of a pack again_ , she thought, but she didn’t say that.  She’d often felt the lone wolf, wandering the world, searching for her pack.  She’d thought it had been Gendry, and Hot Pie, and Ned Dayne for a time, but they weren’t truly pack—not the way the wolf pack was.

“Through Shaggy?” Rickon asked.

Arya nodded. “Now, you’ll need to be careful. They’ll want to follow Nymeria north, but Shaggy mustn’t let them.  When Gendry and I set off North, you’ll have to keep them from going.”

“Shaggy won’t fight Nymeria,” Rickon said.  Nymeria had already forced Shaggydog to submit when they’d met again.  “He won’t want to.”  _I don’t want to_ , she heard Rickon say.  He was ten, and the idea of him fighting his sister…he didn’t like it.  He didn’t like it at all, especially not since Arya had actually returned where the others hadn’t.

“No,” she agreed. She chewed her lip, thinking. Wolves didn’t exactly leave regents of their packs.  There was no hand of the king for a pack leader, no steward in absence.  She thought hard for a moment.  “Nymeria will stay behind for a day or two, and then leave. And Shaggy can stay in her stead.” She didn’t know if it would work. It might—her time inside Nymeria had made it clear to her that the pack didn’t want to go north. But would they just let their leader go off on her own?  And what would happen when she returned? 

Rickon didn’t look as though he was fully convinced. “What happens if I can’t control them?” he asked her nervously.  He looked at Sansa as well.  “What happens if they don’t want me?”

“Then they’ll break,” Sansa said thoughtfully.  “Or they’ll follow Arya north.  But more likely they’ll break into smaller packs and spread across the North for the remainder of the winter.”  She looked at Arya.  “Are you sure about all this?”

She could lie, but what good would that do?  “No. I’m not.  I’m not sure of anything.  Except that I need Nymeria with me, and that I need to go north as soon as possible.  And that we have to at least try something.”

 _It will be good for Rickon to do it,_ she told herself. _Rickon should know pack.  And besides—Lady’s dead.  Lady couldn’t do it._

“Why can’t Ghost stay behind and run with them?” Sansa asked.  “He’s run with them already—whereas Shaggy’s somewhat a stranger to them.”

“Jon’s coming with me,” Arya said firmly.  She _needed_ Jon to come with her. He’d been north of the Wall and…and she needed him to come with her.  Sansa was probably right—Jon could well control the pack better than ten year old Rickon, but…but she needed Jon. And besides, Ghost was mute. What was a pack leader who could not growl, who could not howl or sing?  And Jon wouldn’t want to leave her.  If Gendry was going to be stubborn about making sure she didn’t die, Jon…Jon definitely would be too.

And besides…Ghost wouldn’t be Jon forever.

Sansa didn’t debate it. She looked at Arya, long and hard, before sighing and letting her eyes drift closed.  “I will miss you,” she murmured.  “I will.”

And Arya believed her.

* * *

 

She hadn’t expected Sansa and Rickon to see them off the next morning, but they did, wrapped in their furs as Arya and Gendry finished strapping their packs to the sides of their garrons.  It was black, but the snow reflected the brightness of the torches that were lit in the lichyard. 

Rickon wrapped his arms around her so tightly for a moment she couldn’t breathe.  She rested her hand on the top of his head and waited for him to look up at her. 

“You bring Bran back safely,” he said for the millionth time, and Arya tried to smile.  Smiling hurt her face in the cold, but it was worth it to give Rickon a smile.

“I will,” she said to him. “I promise—I will.”

“And don’t you die either,” he added as an after thought.  “And if you find frozen rivers, remember what I told you about fishing in them.” Somewhere in the dark corners of her mind, Arya remembered Rickon excitedly telling her how to fish through ice, something he had learned from the Skaggs and which he _would_ try if Winterfell’s hotsprings didn’t keep the water nearby from freezing.  Then he let go of her and went to stand by Sansa.  Once Arya had seen him standing next to mother in the lichyard, and he’d barely come up to her hip.  Now he stood so much taller.  _He’ll be nearly as tall as Gendry if he grows like that_ , Arya thought absentmindedly.  _And strong_. Mother had been shorter than Sansa, as well—closer to Arya’s height in truth.  Old Nan said that Arya should have been taller, and that if she hadn’t been starving when she’d been coming out of her childhood she would have been.

Sansa stepped forward and took Arya’s gloved hands in her own.  “I’ve made these for Bran,” she said and she handed Arya a pair of thick woolen mittens of dark grey boiled wool.  “His hands will be too big for whatever gloves he wore when he fled Winterfell.  And he should be kept as warm as possible.”  Arya smiled at Sansa and tucked the mittens into a pouch at her belt. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Sansa produced another thing from her fur lined sleeves. “And this—for you. To put under your hood. Or for Bran if you don’t want it.”

It was a hat made of the same boiled wool, with flaps that would cover her ears.  She put it on.  It stretched over her hair and ears and was so much softer than she’d expected it to be. 

“Thank you,” she said, somewhat awkwardly.  Sansa had never made her anything before.  She remember being six and _wanting_ Sansa to make her something, because Sansa’s needlework was so much better than her own, but her sister hadn’t done it, and Arya had been afraid to ask because she knew that Sansa would say no, and that Jeyne would mock her request.

“Stay safe,” Sansa said, and kissed her cheek.  “Stay warm.”

“I’ll try.” She reached up and touched the soft woolen earflap and gave Sansa a reassuring smile.   Then she mounted her horse and gave Gendry a look. He’d been watching the whole time, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression obscured by a scarf that wrapped around his face and beard.  She wondered for a moment what he was thinking before she kicked her garron forward and rode off into the swirling winter.

 


	4. Gendry; Arya

“How do you even know we’re on the Kingsroad, anyway?” Gendry called to her, as their horses crunched through the snow, doing their best to navigate past the littered bones of the dead, and the charred remains of wights.

Arya didn’t look at him, or respond.  She was riding just a little bit ahead of him, and he could tell she was pretending not to hear him.  He rolled his eyes at her back.

“How do you know we’re not going south if you can’t see the moss on the bleeding trees?” he called, goading her, remembering a stubborn ten-year-old who’d wanted desperately to get to Riverrun and her brother and mother.

But the ten-year-old had grown into an even more stubborn woman, and she didn’t reply, or acknowledge him at all. 

 _She will,_ Gendry thought wildly.  _She has to. Won’t she?  She has to forgive me._

But he couldn’t help but be nervous.  She was stubborn, it was true, but she’d never…she’d never _tried_ to hurt him.  Surely she knew how sorry he was—well not, sorry that he was right, and that he’d saved her life, but that he’d been somehow…no he wasn’t sorry.  Not at all.

All the same, she shouldn’t be angry with him—not about this.  He shifted on his horse and nudged him forward a bit.  Maybe if he rode next to Arya instead of behind her, she’d have a harder time ignoring him. 

* * *

She wasn’t going to be angry with him long.  Arya could tell.  She couldn’t afford to be—not really.  The cold was horrible, and the wind was loud and she couldn’t feel the skin around her eyes. Sometimes, it felt as though her eyes had frozen open because of the tears that the stinging wind blew into them.  She was almost afraid to blink lest they freeze shut, if anything.  Though then, she’d just sink into Nymeria’s skin and run with Jon.

Nymeria joined them at the end of the third day, great and hulking and silver, or rather, when she and Gendry decided it would be night and Gendry lit his night fires and prayed. 

Jon was warm next to her when she slept, and when she rode, he stayed close to her side, sticking his nose out into the air and sniffing.  She _would_ have been safe with just Jon and Nymeria.  She knew how to take care of herself.

All the same, it was almost comforting to have _someone_ riding with her, even if it was Gendry, and even if every time he said her name she heard her own screams in the night.  _It won’t be like that forever_ , she thought.  She knew it wouldn’t be.  Memories like that faded. Pain grew easier. She knew that. She’d learned that a long time ago, the first time mother had died, and her father. 

But that didn’t mean she was ready for every time he tried to start a conversation with her. It didn’t mean she didn’t feel cold inside at the sound of his voice, or that she didn’t prefer the sounds of wintery emptiness to Gendry’s muttered attempts at conversation.

She didn’t doubt that it wouldn’t be long before it all was gone.  But for now, it hurt.

And when it hurt too much, they would rest their horses, and she would sit in the snow next to Jon and bury her face in his fur and feel him rubbing his snout over the top of her head and the hat that Sansa had given her, and she’d feel everything that could have been in her arms if Gendry hadn’t held her back.

* * *

“How can people live like this?  Up north in the winter?”

She didn’t reply. It was a stupid question, and she knew he was just trying to get her to talk to him.  And she wasn’t going to.  Not yet. 

* * *

He had been right.

It was small solace, but he had been right.  It was good that he had come with her.  It wasn’t enough to keep either of them warm, but it was something.

He had thought that the battlefields beneath the walls of Winterfell had been bad, snow that piled fresh every few hours, burying corpses that would only spring back to life unless you burned them—cold so profound that even the heat of dragonflame could not warm them. But within half a day’s ride of Winterfell, the snow was untouched and crunching and stretched out miles and miles without any sign of footprints or life.  The horses complained with every step. Used as they were to the winter and the cold, they did not trust fresh snow, for how fresh was it, and would it hold their weight? 

Gendry did not like to think on it. 

When the wind wasn’t whipping at his face, it was whipping at the back of his neck, and even the fur lining of his cloak was not so thick to keep that icy chill wholly at bay. He’d wrapped scarves and skins around himself, but he was still cold—cold and still, for he wasn’t moving and fighting now.  He was sitting a horse, but sitting a horse did not keep his blood warm.

Nothing kept his blood warm.

But that was hardly new. That, at least, he’d been used to, for even within Winterfell, even waging war, there had been days when Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill had forgotten what it was to see the Lord’s Light, to trust in the flames. 

Never in his life had he been so grateful at how well prepared he was to light a fire.  No one better for it, he told himself as he found branches on the ground which had snapped off their trees because of the weight of the snow, or the winter wind.  He’d learned it young, when he’d been in King’s Landing, when days had been longer than nights, and the stench of Flea Bottom had a salty quality to it when there was a wind blowing west off the Narrow Sea.  And then again, with Thoros, lighting fires that weren’t meant to forge, fires heavy enough to warm a room, but not so heavy that they required as much fuel as he’d needed in Tobho Mott’s forge. Thoros had taught him the prayers he said around his night fires.  And Gendry felt stupid muttering them to himself as he knelt before the flames, hoping that the Lord of Light would hear him and make the fire burn a little brighter, a little hotter, but that Gendry would not need to extract himself from his sleeping furs to find more wood.  It felt strange praying to one god while going north to the Old Gods, the trees with their bleeding faces, and Bran Stark, whom he had never met, but whose name was now on Arya’s lips as frequently as her brother Robb’s once had been.

That was, of course, when Arya had spoken to him.

She still didn’t speak to him.

As stubborn as she was, she only spoke when they paused to rest their horses, finding groves of trees to protect them from the wind, but not so stupid as to rest directly beneath them, lest the wind break branches down upon them.  The horses were some of the finest horses that Winterfell could offer—which was to say, not very fine.  Winter garrons who had never known summer, born in late autumn and raised in the darkness of winter.  Young they might be, and strong enough, but they were thin, and without an endless supply of hay and grain to sustain them…

“There won’t be inns along the way,” Arya had warned him when they’d paused the first day and she’d gone towards the trees to examine them, looking for moss that the horses might eat.  “They’ll have to get used to eating moss, and bark as often as they can.” 

“There is no moss,” he said, “remember?” 

But she didn’t even acknowledge that he’d brought it up again.  She probably didn’t remember.  She just glared at him and turned back to her horse.

It wasn’t a good diet for horses, but the garrons had not known a good diet for horses in many years. Gendry had given them some grain, but he knew it would not last them long. Their best hope was that they would find abandoned inns along the way, or even holdfasts that might have not taken every piece of grain or hay they had collected in autumn.

But Gendry’s hopes weren’t high.  To hear the men at Winterfell talk, it sounded like the holdfasts had been emptied of anything one might need for winter before they’d fled.

* * *

“And I thought it took us forever when we were going out to Riverrun.”

He kept trying. He just kept trying.

She could give him that, she supposed.  This one almost made her smile wistfully.  Days on the road when they hadn’t been freezing…it was almost enough to wash away Arya’s own desperation to reach Robb and her mother, the hunger, the fear that they’d be fallen upon by Lannisters.  At least here they knew no one would accost them.  No one in the North was alive except for Bran.

 _We’re coming_ , she thought again.  It was a talisman of warmth.  Bran’s smile, the memory of his laughter, the feeling of his arms around her as they play-fought in the godswood.  That was enough to drive her forward, as strong as her own fear had been when she’d been a little girl.  Hope and fear, she mused, _both are so strong_.  It had been her hope that had driven her forward then—hope for Robb and safety and dead Lannisters.  It had been hope that had brought her back to Winterfell in the end.  Now though, now she was less afraid. Or, at least…

She was afraid of dying. Terrified, in truth. She couldn’t die, for if she died, then what would become of Bran?  Would Gendry go on without her?  She shuddered at the thought, almost afraid of the answer. She’d been afraid of dying when she’d been little, too, but there was nothing quite like seeing your own death to—

“Of course, we’re going a good bit farther,” Gendry said, and Arya shook herself. 

She wasn’t going to think about any of that now.  She was going to think about Bran.

* * *

Their sixth night on the road, they came across an abandoned inn and Gendry was so glad to see it that he nearly cried.  He might have, had tears not frozen to his face before.  He led the garrons into the stables—half-collapsed, but there enough for the horses to know some respite from the chill. They looked at him expectantly when he closed them into their stalls.  “I’ll look,” he told the horses, though he didn’t know why he was speaking to them, and certainly didn’t hope to expect any hay.

He tried shifting around some of the fallen beams on the far side of the stable, grunting with the effort. The wood was heavy enough, but they were covered in several feet of snow as well, which only weighed them down more.  His muscles strained, and he grunted against the weight, and a moment later, Arya was next to him, helping him shove the wood up. 

When it was cleared away, she asked him.  “What are you looking for?”  


“I was seeing if there was any hay left behind,” he said.  “Did you find anything at all in the inn?”

Arya shook her head. “They left some bedding behind—pillows and rushes and furs.”

“Could the horses eat the rushes?” Gendry asked, looking over his shoulder.  The horses were still watching them.

“They might, if we gave it. You don’t mind sleeping on the ground, do you?”

“Better than the snow.”  He hadn't actually been sleeping on snow. Gendry had spread out furs and even bits of wood to keep himself off it.  Arya had curled up in the warmth of the wolves.

Arya groaned and nodded. She reached up with gloved hands and pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets.  Then she shook herself.  “Right.  Right.”  And she turned away, hurrying back into the inn.

“And get a fire going!” Gendry called after her.

He didn’t know if she’d heard him, but supposed it didn’t matter too much.  One way or another, they would be sheltered tonight. And that much, at least, Gendry was happy with.  Even the lack of feed for the horses could not fully dampen his spirits.  He saw Thistle—the garron that Arya had been riding—bend down and nibble at the dirt on the ground, as if hoping to find something there. 

It was then that Gendry saw what had brought Arya into the stables.  She had brought in some of the inn’s blankets, heavy woven woolen things that would have looked delightfully warm had it not been so cold, and had deposited them on the ground in front of the horses.  He went over and wrapped them around the garrons, tying them in place with some twine that Arya had found as well before Arya came in with a batch of rushes. 

“They aren’t clean,” she said, worriedly.  “They’re not dirty, but…”

“It’ll be all right,” Gendry said, sounding more confident about that than he felt.

The second she put them in the troughs, though, both garrons bent and ate greedily, and Arya sighed with relief.  “At least they’re eating it.  There’s enough that we can feed them before setting out again tomorrow.”

Gendry shuddered at the word, and Arya made a face.  “I know.  But we have to keep going,” she snapped.  “We can’t leave Bran up there, and we’re already moving more slowly than I would like.”

“What pace should we be moving at?” he asked.  “We have to get through miles of snow-covered road.  Are we on the Kingsroad even?”  Arya had never told him how she knew they were on the Kingsroad, though he had come to guess—Ghost had been moving ahead of them with the confidence of someone who had at least taken the road before. But it wasn’t quite the same as knowing for sure that they were on the road.  The snows were too deep to tell, and there were no signs of even wagon-ruts or other riders to mark the way. 

“Jon won’t lead us astray,” Arya said.  Gendry grunted.

He didn’t like it when she called Ghost Jon.  Jon was dead, and he was never coming back, even if he was somehow still living in Ghost.  Gendry knew well enough what dying did to people—as did Arya.  Calling Ghost “Jon” could only end badly. 

There were many things that he would happily tell Arya Stark because she needed to hear them. That, however, was not one of them. 

He followed her back into the Inn.  She had started a fire, and it was crackling merrily on an empty hearth.   Gendry also found a snow hare lying before the hearth, dead and waiting to be skinned.  He raised his eyebrows at Arya.

“It was hopping around when I went to get the rushes,” she said.  “There might be more as well nearby.  Worth a look.  But I thought best not let this one get away first.” Gendry smiled at her.

“I’m not complaining.”

“Didn’t think you would,” she replied and there was a hint of a simle for half a second before it faded away into a scowl again.  “I’ll go look for them—see if I can follow a trail.  Rabbits are light enough that we could bring them along, and it would be good to have some meat for a few days.”  She pushed out the door into the darkness, and Gendry settled before the fire to skin it, gut it, and spit it. 

When he had it cooking, he adjusted the fire that Arya had made, then went about spreading out their sleeping furs before the hearth.  It was only then that he thought to ask, “Where are the wolves?”

But of course, Arya wasn’t there to answer.  They’d probably gone off hunting, or scouting, or whatever it was that two fully-grown direwolves would do when they were off on their own without a pack.

Arya came back half an hour later with two more hares, which joined the first one by the fire. It felt good, knowing that their bellies would be full that night.  “How long do you think these’ll last us?” Gendry asked her.

Arya snorted and sighed. “Not long enough.”

Gendry wished he didn’t agree, but he did.  The room smelled so good, and his mouth was watering with the scent of cooked meat in the air. The other two rabbits they would bury in the snow overnight and bring with them frozen and already cooked tomorrow. They should try and leave some of the other meat behind, but…

Gendry’s stomach growled, and Arya laughed.  He glared at her.  “Oh, like you’re not hungry.”

Before Arya could reply, her own stomach grumbled as well, and she rolled her eyes.  “Look, we were always going to be hungry, weren’t we?” She reached over and poked the first rabbit.   It was probably nearly done cooking.  She took the spit from the fire and cut into it with her knife, and, deeming it cooked, sliced it in half and offered Gendry the two halves to pick from.

He took the bottom, ripped off a leg, and dug into it with his teeth, groaning from the flavor of the rabbit.  They’d had no spices to cook it with, no salt or pepper.  And Gendry was sure that he’d eaten better food at one point or another, but that hardly mattered now—the rabbit was easily the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten.

“It’s always rabbit, isn’t it?” Gendry asked her after he’d finished the first leg and moved onto the second.  Arya was holding the hare’s torso to her lips and was tearing away chunks of it with her teeth, as if she were a wolf.

“What?”

“Rabbit,” he said. “Hare?”  She cocked her head at him, and he felt silly bringing it up.  She probably didn’t remember it, back when they’d been on the road together, how she’d shared part of her meal with Gendry when she’d caught a rabbit.  No one had ever shared anything with him before, but there was that scrap of a girl pretending to be a boy giving him what she didn’t want to finish all on her own.

Arya was frowning, her eyes distant, and he took another bite of his rabbit leg, feeling more stupid by the minute.  What good was it, trying to get her to talk to him.  She was stubborn and always had been, and if she was determined to be angry with him—

Her eyes lit up. “Oh!  I hadn’t remembered.  But now I do.”  She was smiling at him, her face lighting up the way it did, and his heart lurched for just a second.  He suspected she might not be smiling at him were it not for the full belly. Everyone was happier with food in their stomach.  He’d noticed that when he was fourteen and hungry—truly hungry—for the first time in his life.

There had been a lot of first times in his life when he’d been sixteen.  Some of them happier than others, and most of them pretty bloody miserable.  He tried to put those memories from his mind though as he looked at Arya, smiling.

“I’m…” she began to say, but stopped herself, shaking her head. 

“Yes?” Gendry asked, pressing her, but she just took another bite of rabbit and chewed it slowly.

“I’m hoping we’re not going to starve as much as we did in the riverlands,” she said. Gendry could see from her face that that wasn’t what she had been about to say.  Not because it didn’t look that way—Arya had always been good at convincing people what she was saying was true, and was the only thing on her mind.  But because her face was almost too still, her voice too calm, and when it was calm like that…The funny thing about it was that he thought he knew her too well for her to ever be able to get away with lying to him.  He wondered if Jon Snow had been able to spot the lies as well.

“Me too,” he said slowly, and he watched her body relax slowly, as though she was sighing without sighing, glad that he wasn’t going to push her any further.  “If only because I doubt we’ll find bugs to eat.”

Arya gave him a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.  “I hadn’t thought of that.  They’ll all be hibernating or dead or frozen, won’t they?”

“Like everything else.”

“Adventures are never as fun as they sound in the songs,” Arya muttered.  Gendry laughed, and she glared at him, stung.  “It’s the truth,” she snapped.

“Of course it is,” Gendry said.  “But I have to ask—how many songs are they writing about you right now, Arya Thousand Wolves?”

Arya glared at him, feeling peevish.  Of course he would bring that up, just to make her feel silly.    “I didn’t ask them to write songs about me,” she snapped.  It was true, but there’d still been a singer poking about, trying to learn the names she’d taken while she was in Braavos—a verse for each of the thousand faces of Arya Thousand Wolves, he’d said.  She’d done her best to be polite when sending him on his way, and she’d hoped that would be the end of it.  She had a feeling that, even _if_ those who served Him of Many Faces heard that song, they’d be none too pleased about knowing that she’d told about it.  She hadn’t told a soul about that.  She’d promised—sworn, terror gripping her heart as they’d threatened to steal her face forever so that she could never be Arya of House Stark—not truly, not ever again.  And she knew well enough that if she slipped, it would only be a matter of time before there was some poison in her wine, or Nymeria with Basilisk Blood in her nose so that she savaged Arya to pieces.  That would be a song to sing—Arya Thousand Wolves, savaged by her own hell bitch.

She took another bite of hare.  This would probably make another song as well, now that she thought of it.  Arya Thousand Wolves and her warg brother and the bastard son of her father’s best friend, braving snow, ice, and starvation to rescue the King in the North before the Old Gods took him away forever? It was the sort of song that they would sing for thousands of years.  It was the sort of song she would have begged Old Nan to sing for her before bed, with her warbling voice and her frequent coughing fits.  Arya Thousand Wolves, Arya the Brave, Arya the Bold, Arya the Daring. 

She didn’t feel any of those things though right now.  She felt a little girl, though she was a woman grown now.  A little girl who’d gone and gotten herself into something too big for her once again and this time it wasn’t the will of man but the will of the gods that she defied.  She did nothing in halves, did she?

She looked at Gendry. He was watching her, waiting for her to say something.  He was so eager for her to talk to him—she could tell.  And she should want to, shouldn’t she?  Gendry was her closest friend, and he’d never _wanted_ to hurt her, even if he’d done stupid things that had hurt her anyway. 

She thought of Jon, lying bleeding in the snow, his grey eyes wide, his mouth open in surprise.

Jon dying was different than Gendry saying he would stay with the Brotherhood instead of coming with her to Riverrun and Robb.  Jon dying was different.  Very different. She picked at her hare.

She’d given Gendry part of her hare on the road when she’d been ten.  It felt like a hundred years ago, and yet here she was again, sharing meat with Gendry.  They’d been through so much.  They’d been through so much together, and Arya had been through so much on her own. What did Gendry know about…about…

She looked at him and suddenly felt silly.  Gendry knew about loss.  If she’d lost so much, he’d lost it too.  But…

She looked at her hands, and took a deep breath.

 _It hurts because you care_ , she thought.  _You stupid, you’ve always cared so much.  That’s why it always hurts so bloody much._ She thought of Rickon, who was always angry even when he wasn’t angry, who whimpered in his sleep sometimes, and cried when he was alone.  She thought of Sansa, who pushed things down inside her and didn’t let herself even touch her own pain, instead letting it bubble forward when she lost control of that pristine mask she wore.  She thought of Jon, who had smiled less often since he’d died but who fought his own hurt like an adversary to be defeated.  She thought of Jon most of all and when she looked at Gendry’s face she saw Jon’s.  Gendry’s face wasn’t so long, and his eyes were lighter than Jon’s had been, but there was something about Gendry—he’d always been different to her, just as Jon had been.  But that hadn’t meant she’d wanted Jon to _die_ , or for Gendry to replace him.

She closed her eyes and for a moment she was the wolf, running through the woods, sniffing at trees, hoping against hope that there would be _something_ for her to eat.  _Anything_ to eat. Something that had frozen to death that maybe she could melt beside the warm of the girl’s fire, something for her and her brother to eat.

Her brother looked at her with his long pale snout, hot breath misting out of his mouth. Her first pack.

When she opened her eyes again, there was Gendry’s face again, watching her.

“You never wanted to be my pack,” she blurted out at him, and he cocked his head.

“What does that mean?” He sounded like he was trying not to sound derisive, and was focusing on keeping that out of his voice instead of thinking about the words she’d just said.

She rolled her eyes. “I thought you were my pack. And then you left, and now…”

“Pack…like…wolves?” He began to laugh and Arya glared at him.  “Arya, I know that you can wear Nymeria’s skin, but that doesn’t make the rest of us _wolves_ to be part of your pack of thousands.  That’s not how humans _are_. We aren’t all one big bloody pack.”

“I know that, stupid,” she snapped, “It’s a symbol.” It might not be the perfect word—she was sure she’d learned a better Braavosi one when she was Mercy, but she remembered Maester Luwin teaching her how sigils worked, how the direwolf of Stark was the symbol of her house.  More than a symbol now, in truth, but that wasn’t something she’d say to Gendry. “It’s not an _actual_ pack.  It’s like a pack.  But not an actual one.  I know I’m human.  I’m a direwolf, but I’m not _actually_ a direwolf.”

“A symbol of what, then?” he asked.  “Of family? Because I’m not your family, Arya. You’ve got your brothers and sisters to be your family.  I’m just…” his nostrils flared and he looked away.

“You are _like_ family,” she said.  “You were supposed to be my pack.  Not everyone in a pack is family.  You can’t only have family in your pack, or else you’ll weaken it in the end, because you can’t breed within your pack.”

She felt herself flushing as she said it.  She didn’t know why—it was stupid.  It was just _Gendry_.  It wasn’t like she was…it wasn’t as though he was Yorko, who’d been prettier the second time she’d sailed on his ship and whose eyes had twinkled and whose lips had been full and…Gendry wasn’t like Yorko. Not at all.  Except why was she noticing his lips, and how she wished they weren’t chapped and cracked now? 

He was flushing too. But he wasn’t looking away. “So I’m supposed to be your family but not family?  And I didn’t want that?” Gendry’s blue eyes were confused, his brows knitted together as though he were trying very hard to make everything come together in his stupid head.  He laughed again. “What would milady want in a bloody lowborn bastard blacksmith like myself?”

She could hit him, but instead she contented herself with ripping the head off the rabbit and cracking its head open to get to the brains inside.  Brains always tasted better than the rest of the meat. “You’re the one who can’t figure that out, not me.  You’ve always been my _friend_ , Gendry. Even when you thought I was a boy named Arry.”

“I never thought you were a boy,” snorted Gendry.

“You did so.”

“I did not.”

“I had you fooled for a little while.”

“A day, maybe.”

“It was longer than that.”

“As milady says,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“What does it bloody matter if I’m _milady_ ,” she snapped at him. “ _Why_ does that matter so much?  Have I ever _once_ made you feel the lesser for not being _milord?_ ”

In the light from the fire, his blue eyes were bright, and she shouldn’t notice the pink in his cheek and how it lent such a beautiful color to his face.  His face was paler now than it had been when they’d been younger.  Pale because there was barely an hour of sunlight a day now, and how long had they gone without any light at all?  But the pale pink in his cheeks that peeks up from the top of his beard, and the deeper red of his lips…

“You never did,” he said slowly.  He paused for a moment, and his tongue flicked out across his lips.  He looked like he was steeling himself for something. Arya was about to egg him on when he continued all on his own.“Which made it worse.  Because you, of all people, should have. You’re a Stark of Winterfell, and I’m too bloody lowborn—” he snorted, “Or was.  I don’t know what I am anymore.  But what would a Stark of Winterfell want in Flea Bottom scum like me?”

“When did I ever—” Arya interrupted, but he continued, cutting her off. 

“You never did. I just said that. That’s not the point.”

“What is, then?” Arya demanded.  He was being infuriating, just like his usual stupid self.  But there was something different to his gaze now, something angry.  That was hardly new—Gendry had always seemed angry.  But there was something else there now, the same determination he’d had whenever he’d tried to talk to her in the past week, as if determined that she notice him, that she listen to him.  And now that he had her attention, he wasn’t going to stop, even if suddenly he was talking more than he ever had ever before.

“Why would you treat me equally when highborns have only ever shat upon my very existence. And only started paying attention to me when I was knighted— _if_ I was knighted, they said—and then again when Stannis Baratheon took one look at me and declared me his brother’s get.  But before all that…you should have.  That’s what highborns do, and you never did. All of ten years old and showing more nobility of spirit than any bloody lord I’d smithed for.”

“And that made it worse?” Arya asked, confused, though whether more by his sudden openness or by his words she wasn’t sure.  Why was he being so open with her?  They were friends—that was true.  But their friendship had never been the sort where they opened their souls up to one another.  Daena had wanted that from Mercy, and Denyo from little Salty, but never Gendry from Arya. Maybe it was because they were alone now.  Maybe this would have been how it was if she had abandoned Hot Pie and Lommy and Weasel in the riverlands and gone off with him alone, and there wouldn’t have ever been anyone else to interrupt them.

“Made it harder.” Was she imagining it, or was he trembling? _He’s nervous_ , she thought suddenly.  _He’s scared.  Because he’s telling me this?  Or of something else?_   “Because why would I believe it when you said that you’d make sure there was space for me in your household?  No other highborn’d ever done it.” He leaned back.  He’d finished his rabbit by now, and had laid the bones by the fire.  They’d boil them into broth when they were on the road. 

“You should have,” she said.  “You were supposed to be my pack.”

“You know,” Gendry said, and his voice was that sort of falsely light and wavering, that tone that bubbled anger beneath a sheen of levity, “No one ever wanted me, so why would you?”

Arya cocked her head at him. “No one ever wanted you?”

“My mother didn’t, Master Mott didn’t, and I convinced myself you didn’t.”  His eyes were wide, and hard. 

“I _did!_ ” she practically screeched at him.

“I know that! But why would you? I was sixteen and confused about everything, and the only thing that let me _prove_ I was even worth the time anyone spent on me was smithing and the Brotherhood.”

“You didn’t have to _prove_ anything,” Arya sighed, exasperatedly.  “You were my _friend_.  Friends don’t have to prove anything.”

“Friends don’t, but I do. Everyone else tells me I shouldn’t be.  Some tavern wench’s by-blow, and she got rid of me as quick as she could.  A father who never cared about me, and whose friends would drop in to use me to prove…what, exactly?  That King Robert’s get were dark haired and blue-eyed like him? But they were using me too and dropped me as fast as they could.  Even the master smith I apprenticed for thought I wasn’t worth the time.”

“My father would have—” Arya began, but she stopped.  She remembered her father, how tired he’d looked when he’d been in King’s Landing, how tense and angry—how he’d insisted that she and Sansa get along because he was constantly grappling with the King and the Small Council. She remembered him wrapping his arms around her, remembered him finding Syrio for her, and kissing her forehead and promising her that she would marry a king.  _That was never going to be me_ , she sighed.  And part of her was pleased—she was Arya Thousand Wolves, after all. No queenly consort was she. She was so much more than that already.  “My father would have looked after you,” she said.  “If he’d lived.  If the Lannisters hadn’t captured him.  He would have seen that you…”

“That I what? Had a place to serve? Maybe he would have, but what life would he have promised me?  The same life you did—smithing for him.  Staying in my place.  Never rising beyond what I already was.  Even if I was his best friend’s son.”

Arya glared at him. “He would have cared for you,” she insisted.  “He would have. My father wasn’t like other high lords.  He wasn’t. He was like me.” _He was like me_ , she thought vehemently.  _Everything I wanted to be I’ve learned from my father.  He was_ just _, and he was_ caring _.  He would have looked after Gendry.  Would have liked him._

Gendry sighed. “This is a useless conversation,” he muttered.  “We won’t agree on it, and you’re missing the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“That they should all have bloody cared about me from the start.  Isn’t that what highborns are supposed to do?  Look after the lowly, protect them from that which would do them wrong? But how many knights are just like _Ser_.”  He didn’t have to say his name.  _Is there gold in the village?  Where is Lord Beric?_   “But they don’t.  The only way they start paying attention to you is if you’ve got a bloody Ser before your name.  And I’m a knight now, but I’m still a bloody bastard blacksmith from Flea Bottom, and they hate that.  You never did—which only made their failures that much more apparent.  They weren’t as good as a bloody ten-year-old girl who was starving on the road and wouldn’t leave Hot Pie and Weasel and Lommy behind even if Lommy was dying and Weasel was two.”

“They would have been doomed without us!” Arya yelped.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Gendry said.  “And I would have left them.  Still would have.  Weasel’s probably dead, and Lommy had a sword shoved through his neck.” _Think so?_ and blood running down Rafford’s leg.  “Maybe we wouldn’t have gotten caught if we’d moved faster.  It would have just been you and me.  Maybe we would have made it North.  But that’s not my point.  My point is that you _cared_.  And no one else ever did.”  _That’s why it hurts so much_.  _That’s why._ She hadn’t thought of Weasel in years, that terrified little girl who’d run fleeing into the woods on her own and had maybe—just maybe—avoided the pain of wondering if she’d be the next to be tortured to death.  They wouldn’t have tortured her for information. They would have tortured her to _laugh_.  The thought almost made Arya sick.  She thought of the Tickler. 

“And you still care,” he continued.  “You care—about your brother dying, about your brother crippled and trapped so far north that you will travel miles and miles and miles alone in the snow, facing frostbite, and death, and starvation just to get him out.  You care about everything in the world—even Jeyne Poole who bloody bullied you as a child, and your sister who wasn’t much better.” Arya stiffened and opened her mouth, but Gendry spoke over her, “You see? You don’t like it when I remind you that your sister bullied you.  She doesn’t now—that’s what you’ll say.  She’s different now, and so is Jeyne Poole, who was tortured and raped and still thinks she’s prettier than you are when she’s not. You care about them and all they’ve been through, even though there’s nothing you could have done to stop what happened to them, to have eased their pain because you couldn’t even ease your own.  You care about them now, and want them to be well, even though you muttered names every night before you fell asleep of people you wanted dead.”

She’d always wondered if he’d heard her. 

“There’s a difference between Jeyne Poole and Raff the Sweetling,” she said carefully.   Jeyne who had almost been killed herself when the lords of the North had learned that she wasn’t truly Arya but some Lannister trick, who had almost turned on Sansa for defending her, for she was “Lady Lannister,” and had only been calmed when Arya had stood up, Ned Stark’s little girl, and told them that they brought shame to the North. Jeyne had trembled before Arya, and had begged for mercy, that she hadn’t wanted any of it, that she hadn’t meant any of it, and the pure terror in her eyes…Arya had wondered in that moment why she had ever been upset by Jeyne Poole, who thought so little of her that she imagined Arya would brutalize her for taking her place.  _Because that was what Jeyne would have done to me_ , Arya had thought.  _She would have taken my place and laughed.  She tried to.  That was why she called me Horseface._ Something in her chest had released.  _She was afraid of me. But I was never the monster she thought I would be to her.  Not once._

“Yes,” Gendry agreed.  “There is every difference in the world.”

“I don’t see—”

“You cared about me. No one else ever had until then. And no one has that way ever since—not the same way.   So I don’t know what makes your bloody pack, or what that means, but you’ve always been different to me, and if you think that I’d go and let yourself run to your bloody death—” he stopped talking and his eyes were bright now.

And Arya understood. She truly understood. It didn’t help—didn’t help the feeling of failing Jon, of letting Jon died, but it was a start. It was a start. Because if she could understand anything, it was the knowledge of how bloody painful it was to watch someone you love die and be unable to save them.  _Not Bran, though_ , she thought fiercely.  _I will save Bran_. 

“We should get some sleep,” she said quietly, and Gendry nodded.  She set the bones of her rabbit next to Gendry and put another log on the fire.  Gendry was climbing into his furs, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Arya spread her own furs on top of his and slipped in beside him. 

“It will get cold if the fire goes out while we sleep,” she explained.  She knew she wouldn’t have to explain.  Gendry wasn’t stupid, even when he was stupid. But she had to say it, she needed to give the reason.  Because…because she wasn’t sure.  Gendry shifted slightly, making a little more room for her and grunted.

Arya fell asleep quickly. There was something so familiar about Gendry’s scent.  It lulled her, as Nymeria lulled her, as curling up next to Jon had lulled her.

 


	5. Gendry; Arya

Things were harder after that.  Harder, because there were no more roadside inns along the way—or where there were, they were in worse shape, buried so deep in snow that they could only see roofs, or with whole sides blown away by the wind. 

The snow was thick and crunched under their horses hooves, and sometimes, horrifyingly, the garron would sink down deeper into the snow and let out a panicked neigh that would startle the other.  They were never so buried in snow that they could not continue, at least, but it was slower going than Gendry knew Arya wanted it to be. She didn’t say as much, but she didn’t have to.  He could tell it frustrated her, because her frustration seeped into their conversations. At least, he thought, she was talking to him again.

It was slower than Gendry would have liked as well.  The cold was so piercing that Gendry only remembered what warmth was when he lit his night fires, murmured a prayer that hoped against hope that the fire would not go out while they slept, and then climbed into his sleeping furs and buried his face in Arya’s hair. 

Arya fit under his chin perfectly, and, though he could not feel her heartbeat through their thick clothes, it would never be too long before her warmth would seep into him, and his into hers, and their shivering would ebb away.  By the time he awakened, she would be as warm as…as…he only thing he could describe it was as Arya—as she had been when they’d curled up together years before on the road in the riverlands, with no blankets, nothing to cover them but the clothes on their backs.  She’d been warm then, and she was warm now, and because she was warm, it made wrenching himself from the warmth of the furs when he awoke that much harder, because that warmth was shattered, like an icicle falling from Winterfell’s crennolations. 

Sometime she muttered in her sleep—when she wasn’t in the wolf.  Names.  He was used to her muttering names, but these were different ones.  He’d never heard of a girl named Mercy before, and he was fairly certain that Arya wouldn’t call her mother by her mother’s given name, Cat.  And Beth…her muttering didn’t make it sound like she was dreaming of Beth Cassel.  He wondered who they were that Arya dreamed of them.

On and on they trekked, the wolves leaving them while they rode, disappearing into the snow, sniffing out any sign of game that could possibly have survived this chill or, though he knew Arya hated to think on it, the frozen remains of the dead. He did not ask if they were successful.  He could tell by the look on Arya’s face when she awoke from her sleep, if her own hunger was compounded by having worn Nymeria’s skin, and if the wolf was hungry or not.

A week after they found the first abandoned inn, the last of the rations they had brought with them from Winterfell was used up.  That night, they melted snow in a pot, and boiled the bones of the hares that Arya had caught, and had a thin broth, but Gendry’s stomach growled all night and he tossed and turned, too hungry to sleep.

And it was in that tossing and turning that things became harder.  Harder, because he could not—would not—let go of Arya, let go of that warmth that kept him alive while he slept.  He told himself that it was her warmth more than the furs and whatever else he put beneath them to insulate them from the snow, even if he wasn't sure that was wholly true.  But if he would not let go of her, and could not sleep, he was all too aware of how close she was, of the pattern of her breathing, the smell of her hair that he’d buried his nose in.  He was painfully aware of the curve in her waist, the press of her breasts—small, and covered in thick wools and leathers—against his chest, and the way her hips pressed against his, so close that he could feel where her legs began and…and…

Once, years ago, before he’d forgotten what it was like to be warm anywhere but in Arya’s arms, Lem had glared at him when he’d spent too much time with her.  She’d been ten, and he’d been sixteen, and Lem had insisted that she was half his age, and a bloody princess to boot. He’d not meant it _that_ way.  She wasn’t hard on the eye, but she was still a child, for all she was a child who was more clever than most of the grown men he’d known. Even when Lady Smallwood had brought her that acorn dress, she’d been a child, for all she’d been more obviously a girl child than she had been before.  Sometimes she’d muttered that she was a direwolf under her breath—when she’d been scared or nervous, when the world was too big for her.  And Gendry had half wondered when he’d been younger if that weren’t a little bit true. She did, at times, seem more wolf than girl. 

And of course, she’d had this idea of a “pack” and that Gendry was supposed to have been a part of it.

That warmed him too. It warmed him and he could have groaned because when that warmed him he could only think of how Arya had looked at him when they’d been in the inn, how she’d even looked at him before Lord Snow had fallen, before everything had ended, and there had been such warmth in her eyes, a sense of companionship that Gendry had never fully expected from her and he couldn’t remember what she’d looked like in that nice acorn dress. What did it matter what she’d looked like dressed in a dress, or even in the lacy gown they’d put on her in the Peach, when Arya looked at him like he was hers.  _Her pack_.

It was a silly word. He couldn’t imagine being a part of a pack.  Even with the Brotherhood, he’d sometimes felt like he didn’t belong, off at the inn at the crossroads, with a band of orphans to look after, but neither the Brotherhood nor the band of orphans felt like “pack”—at least, not the way Arya seemed determined that it meant.  That hadn’t been him though.  Not truly. Not the way he was with Arya. Things were different with Arya than they were with others.  Different, because when she looked at him, she didn’t see Ser Gendry, or Robert Baratheon’s bastard, or even a blacksmith—she saw _him_.  Truly him. And nothing else. No one looked at him that way. Even if Arya had a pack—it would be _her_ pack, not Gendry’s. She had the sort of ease with people that had never come to Gendry naturally.   Gendry never seemed to get on with her pack so well as he got on with her—not even her bleeding family. 

He found it telling that there had been something…something obvious about dealing with Mother Mercy that had made it easier than dealing with Jon Snow.  At least Lady Catelyn’s revenant had followed a set pattern, had made it clear that she could not, would not like him, for he, like the rest, had let Arya slip through his fingers when the Hound had got her. There was no fondness there, not even a chance for it.  Just the reminder that this…this woman was Arya’s mother, and that if she wanted Arya back, and Gendry wanted Arya safe, then perhaps they were similar enough.

Lord Snow though…

He’d always had a special smile for Arya, and she’d had one for him.  He was the one she went to when she came in from the cold, the one she told everything to first, and Gendry had tried not to be jealous. Lord Snow had been her brother, after all.  But he had been. He’d been jealous of her bleeding brother, and you shouldn’t be jealous of pack, should you? That wasn’t how packs worked. He knew that much. Packs revolved around the leader, but there was some level of camaraderie in them that Gendry…Gendry had never felt that with Jon Snow. 

He’d not been glad when Jon Snow had died.  He could not have been, not when Arya had collapsed in his arms and not come back for weeks because her pain was too great.  But there was some part of him that was…

She wouldn’t go to Jon Snow first anymore. 

It would be Gendry now. He knew it.

And even when she brushed snow from Ghost’s fur, and the direwolf rubbed his snout through her head and she’d smile and kiss his nose, Gendry did not mind it, because it was a _wolf_ , not a person.

He was a wolf not a person now, and when Arya slept, she slid into Nymeria’s skin, and he saw the way that the two wolves nuzzled at one another when they lay down together, and he knew that it was Arya with Jon in her sleep.  But Gendry couldn’t be too upset by that, not when Arya was in his arms, her hips against his, her chest against his, safe in his arms as he’d dreamed of her for years after she’d disappeared.  Safe in his arms, and they’d survive this together, or die doing this together, but it was how it was supposed to be: him and Arya, on their own, with no meddling Edric Daynes or Jon Snows or Hot Pies, or anyone. Just him and Arya.

* * *

She tried not to notice it. Tried very hard.

Sometimes, Jon went off on his own, or with Nymeria—just a little way ahead of the garrons. Sometimes, he cleared a path through the snow, or just went sniffing at trees or hills he saw, making sure that the snowy wasteland they were traveling through was truly devoid of life.

Sometimes, when he came back…she tried not to notice it, tried not to notice that he seemed to hulk a little more, that his movements were more graceful, more agile, more controlled, that he would twitch his nose into the air more, that he wouldn’t walk right next to Arya’s horse but maybe closer to Gendry’s, or ahead, or behind.

“ _I faded into the wolf_ ,” Jon had told her when first they’d found one another again.  “ _I faded into the wolf. There are parts of me…parts of me I’ll never get back, Arya.  That are lost in Ghost_.”

“ _Like what?”_ she’d asked.

But he’d just shaken his head and had hugged her as tightly as he could, and hadn’t explained.

 _Don’t fade_ , she thought desperately, looking at Ghost. _Please, not yet.  Please don’t fade._

She wished there was something she could do—anything.  She was Arya Thousand Wolves, as Jon’s stupid friends and then everyone else had taken to calling her.  Arya Thousand Wolves was a hero from a song, a warrior princess who was able to save everyone. But maybe being some great heroic princess wasn’t enough to make her stop feeling like the helpless little girl who hadn’t been able to do anything to save the people she loved though.  Arya Thousand Wolves could keep her brother’s mind in the wolf. Arya of House Stark couldn’t do anything except watch while horrible things happened around her.

Try as she might—and gods but she tried—nothing ever seemed to go as it should. As much as she dreamed of spending long days and nights in Winterfell with her brothers and sister, that was a dream. So long as people had need of her, she’d go to them, for she couldn’t live with herself if she abandoned people in need.  Because if she couldn’t help them, couldn’t save them…

But she couldn’t do anything to stop Jon fading, even if he was only fading a little bit.

A little bit was enough to remind her that he wouldn’t be there forever, and soon only Ghost would remain.

* * *

“If you could go one place in the world, where would it be?” Gendry asked.  He saw Arya twitch on Thistle’s back, look over at him.

“Why are you asking?” she responded, curiosity etched on her face.  She had such an expressive face.  That is, when she wasn’t hiding her thoughts from the world. But there was no one here but him.

“Just curious. Anything not to think of the bleeding cold.”  It was true, to an extent, at least. 

She snorted, then said, almost automatically.   “Winterfell.”

Gendry did his best not to roll his eyes.  He kenw better than to mock her about Winterfell.  “Yes, but you’ll be back in Winterfell soon enough, and you’ve already been there.  Where else?”

Arya chewed her lip, considering.  “I’d like to see the Rhoyne,” she said, and she reached over and patted Nymeria’s fur. “She’s named for the queen Nymeria, who came from the Rhoyne.  It was my favorite story when I was little.  Or…Asshai, I suppose.  To see if it really doesn’t have any children in it at all.”

“Does it not?” Gendry asked.  He’d never heard that. He’d only heard that everyone wore masks, but that Melisandre hadn’t worn a mask and she was from Asshai.

“That’s what Maester Luwin used to say,” she said.  She paused.  “What about you?”

“The Summer Isles,” Gendry said.

Arya snorted. “You’re just saying that because it’s warm there and it’s the middle of winter here.”

“I think that’s a plenty good reason,” Gendry replied easily.

“It’s warm plenty of places.”

 _Like in your arms_ , Gendry thought before berating himself. It was warm in her arms, but that was a stupid thing to think.  “All right then,” he said, “Valyria, then.”

“It’s haunted there,” Arya said.

“Aren’t we going up to some haunted forest?”

“So?  It’s _really_ haunted in Valyria.  The doom destroyed it.”

“I’d still like to see it,” he said stubbornly and Arya rolled her eyes. 

“Well, if you go, I’m coming too.  Someone needs to keep you alive.”

“What do you know about Valyria anyway?”

Arya didn’t reply. She looked out over the snow, and her face was curiously blank.

“Arya?”

“Just some stories I heard in Braavos is all,” she said vaguely.  She was always vague about Braavos, even when she’d just gotten back from it. She began to chew her lip, then stopped, then shook herself and started again.  He’d never seen her do that before.

* * *

The snow was cold beneath her paws, and she curled up with her silent brother.  The horses stood shivering beneath the trees, nibbling at the bark and the moss when they weren’t asleep, and the girl was asleep in the arms of her mate.   _Not my mate_ , she thought.  _He’s not.  He’s pack._

The snow was cold, and the air was still, and she smelled a storm in the air.  She smelled a storm and whined slightly. She could not smell prey. There had not been the scent even of the dead and frozen for a good long while.  Her girl had taken to boiling bones and drinking the flavored water.  She had offered it to the wolf before, but wolves do not drink bone water.

She was hungry. Hungry and there was nothing to eat.

 _Horses_ , she thought, but she knew that the girl would not let her.  _They will starve soon anyway_ , she thought. There was nothing for the horses to eat, and though the garrons filled their stomachs with bark and moss where they could find it, they were growing thin.  Thin and starving.  And when they starved, Nymeria would eat their flesh.  Nymeria would eat their flesh and it would make her less angry, less cold, and perhaps, when her girl was inside her, her girl would feel less hungry and cold as well.

She buried her nose in her brother’s fur, and dreamed of running.  It was too cold to run.  Even if the sun came all the way into the sky now, it was still cold.  She remembered being warm in the land with many rivers.  She remembered her little cousins and hoped that they were not so hungry as she.  She remembered her black brother, and his growls and his howls and hoped that his little man was feeding him.   She was glad that he was not there, though.  She missed him, but there wasn’t food enough for two wolves, much less three. And if he had come, so too would the youngest of her girl’s pack, the small one who smelled of anger. He was not the brother her girl wanted.  The brother her girl wanted lived on in Ghost, and whenever he was awake, her own brother slid away from her.  But her girl was so happy when her brother was there—or at least, less sad. Her girl was always fighting to be less sad and when she buried her nose in her brother’s fur, either as the girl or as the wolf, her sadness was less heavy.

Her runt brother did not eat as much as she did.  He was smaller, in the end.  This they had known even when he was a pup—smaller and silent, though fast. He was also different now than he had been before, with his man in him always.  It was nearly as it had been when her girl had been sad, and had stayed with her inside her for many moon’s turns, though when her girl had been inside her, there had been times when she deferred to the wolf.  This was not so with her pale brother. Her pale brother was less wolf-like than ever he had been before.  She had noticed this when first his man had died.  It had been very pronounced then.  Her brother was not used to pack, no more than their angry black brother was.  Only Nymeria was used to pack. 

This brother was odd, though.  He was unused to following.  Perhaps once he had known, but when he had joined her pack he had forgotten. Now, though, when it was just the two of them, he did not try and lead her as once he had.  Now he ran at her side, and she knew it was for his little sister, her girl, that he did this.  They ran as a pair, they always had. _Jon had always been different_ , she remembered her girl saying, calling her brother by the name of his man.  So too had her brother always been different.  But now he was more different.  More different, but also less different.

With every passing day, he was more wolf-like.  It was as if he had forgotten what it was to be a wolf and was slowly remembering, or as if her girl’s brother was learning what it meant to be pack, and forgetting what it meant to be man.  Sometimes when they ran and her girl was not inside her, she wondered where the wolf mind ended and the man mind began.  It was always so clear with her girl, but it was less so with her brother.

When she noticed it too, her girl grew frightened, grew sad.  _I will not lose Jon_ , she thought fiercely.  _I will not, so long as I have Ghost_.  But Ghost was there, and Ghost was strong—for even as her body grew lean and hungry, and her brother’s body did as well, it was as if the hunger of it all reminded him what it was to be wolf.  And when he curled next to her, it was not as a man in a wolf’s skin, but the way her brother had once curled around her before his man had died.

* * *

The storm hit, just as Nymeria’s nose had warned her, snow that whirled and swirled so intensely that Arya couldn’t see anything at all.

“We should find shelter!” Gendry shouted at her over the whipping wind.

“There is no shelter!” she shouted back.  They had to shout, or else they wouldn’t be able to hear one another. 

“The trees!”

“Don’t be stupid! Their branches will fall on us! _They_ might fall on us!”

She wanted to stop, wanted not to continue pressing north, wanted to huddle next to Gendry, bury her face in his chest and let his heat and his smell wash over her until the wind stilled and the snow stopped falling.  But she knew better than to stop.  If they stopped, they’d be buried.  So they kept going, dismounting from the garrons to lead them, the wolves ahead of them, but not close enough to block the sharp flakes that blew into her eyes. It was horrible—how hard the snowflakes were.  They were more like shards of ice that flew into her face, and she wondered if her face was cut, shredded into pieces the way her mother’s had been. 

 _I will not think of that_. 

So she thought of Bran instead.  Thought of Bran climbing the walls of Winterfell, making an arsenal of snowballs with which they would pelt Sansa, laughing and smiling and racing through the yard. She thought of Bran, and the panic in his voice as he’d begged her to come north.  _Please_.

She wanted home.  She wanted so badly to be home, with him, with them all, safe and warm and happy.  She wanted all this to be over.  Why was it never over?  Why could she never end it?

She redoubled her efforts, forced herself to take one step, and then another, to put one foot in front of the other, because she hadn’t been able to save her mother, not at the Red Wedding, and not when she’d found her beneath the walls of Riverrun, but she could save Bran, she _would_ save Bran, and this storm—this storm was _nothing_ compared to what she had already weathered.

* * *

Arya drifted awake to feel Gendry’s cock hard against her hip.

If she weren’t so hungry, she would have bitten back a grin.

It was not the first time it had happened.  The first time it had happened, she had been…well, confused seemed the wrong word. She knew _what_ it was, and _why_ it was, but why it would happen with _her_ had been perturbing.  They were friends, after all.  She’d spent several minutes awake wondering what this could mean, and wondering if Gendry had lost his mind, and trying to understand why it pleased her so much that he’d be hard against her.  When he had woken, he’d bushed furiously and insisted that it was a matter of the morning, and that it just happened and then hadn’t said a word until they stopped to rest next.

The thing was, she was sure that he was right—that it was a matter of the morning.  But at the same time, she remembered one-eyed Yna telling a little cockle-seller named Cat that when a man’s harder than an iron bar, and he keeps telling you that it’s a matter of the morning, there’s a good chance he’s lying.  She wondered if Gendry _was_ lying, if he really might think her…

“ _When a man’s as hard as a mast, he wouldn’t mind a bit of capsizing,_ ” Yna had said with a wink, and pretty Lanna had rolled her eyes at Yna.

“ _That doesn’t make sense, Yna._ ”

“ _It does_ ,” Yna had responded heatedly.  “ _When a boat capsizes, its mast ends up in the wet_.”  And she’d let out a crowing laugh and taken a cockle in her hand and gone off deeper into the house, swinging her hips with the contented swagger of one convinced that they are completely correct.

“ _She’s not wrong_ ,” Lanna had replied, looking after her with a derisive expression.  “ _She just mixed it up some. When a man’s as hard as a sword, he won’t mind a sheath._ ”  She’d looked pleased with herself.  She was younger than Yna, and her hair like spun gold had attracted many sailors, and she’d been happy to sheath the inside her for the right fee. They thought she was stupid because she was pretty, but Lanna was cleverer than they gave her credit for.

Arya rolled out of the furs, gasping as the cold hit her, and ignoring Gendry’s grunt of discomfort that she was pulling herself loose of his embrace and she went off behind one of the trees nearby to make water and let Gendry settle himself before they would roll up their furs and mount their garrons and keep pressing north. Her stomach growled as she crouched and when she stood up again, she saw blood mixed in with the yellow.

She groaned.

She hadn’t noticed it. With her stomach constantly empty and paining her, she hadn’t noticed the cramping but there it was, her moon blood marking the snow.  She rolled her eyes at it.  _Why did it have to come?_ she wondered angrily. Sansa had said that hers had stopped flowing when they had begun rationing, that hunger had kept her red flower from blooming.  Arya had not been so lucky, and she hadn’t understood why it was that if she was the one doing the fighting, her moon blood was so stubbornly _there_ , draining her of energy and slowing her down as she fought, while Sansa, who sat still, or at least, when she moved, stayed within the walls of Winterfell, did not bleed.

 _I’m hungrier now than ever I was at Winterfell_ , she thought at her abdomen angrily.  _Can’t you stop for a while?_ She had brought rags with her—just in case.  She wasn't stupid.  But she did not much fancy the idea of Gendry knowing that she was…she groaned.  This was _worse_ than him being hard as stone when he woke next to her every morning.

He was rolling the furs up when she came back, and dug through her pack for her rags, then disappeared again.  “Is everything all right?” he called after her.

“Yes,” she responded curtly before undoing her breeches again, wincing once again against the cold on her ass as she lined her smallclothes with linen.  She knew the linen wouldn’t be enough, and that the smallclothes would be ruined, and she’d be stuck with stained and crackling smallclothes for the rest of…however long this would take. She did not fancy the idea. But there wasn’t anything she could do about it, and things could be worse.  They had been worse.  Her moon blood was just…unwelcome.  Unwanted.  _Why_ did it have to come every month?  It wasn’t as though Arya was planning on having children while on the road.  Couldn’t she control it?  Make it go away?  If the Lord of Light could breathe life back into Jon, or her mother, couldn’t he do something to make her flower stop blooming for a few months while she went to rescue Bran?

Gendry brushed past Arya when she came over to the garrons and Jon cocked his head at her, sniffing at her hips slightly before seeming to stiffen and hurry away from her. She rolled her eyes at his back. _It’s not so horrifying,_ she wanted to call after him.  _It’s not as though Nymeria doesn’t also have her moon blood.  All women do, Jon._ He could be remarkably silly about women sometimes.  She blamed his having joined a celibate brotherhood.

When Gendry came back, he looked at her apprehensively, and she was sure that he’d seen the blood. She willed herself not to blush, and refused to break his eye contact. 

“All right?” he asked her slowly.

“Fine,” she said, setting her jaw, and he nodded.

That night, when he climbed into the furs after her, he paused for a moment before pressing his hips to hers.  And he looked down at her, and she saw the firelight reflected in his eyes, asking if it was all right.  She sighed, and nodded. They’d found the frozen carcass of a deer, somehow uncovered by the wind of the previous day’s storm, and there was meat in their bellies and the warmth of Gendry against her stomach soothed some of the cramping there. She had more trouble than usual falling asleep that night, and when Gendry was breathing deeply against her scalp, she felt him begin to stiffen against her, and, for all her frustration, grinned.

* * *

Several days later, they stopped to rest before a weirwood tree.  It was not along the Kingsroad, or at least, what Gendry and Arya still believed to be the Kingsroad.  It was hard to tell beneath the snow, but it certainly seemed like it should be, cutting between trees and hills and fields as it did.  Gendry wouldn’t have been very surprised if they were hopelessly lost, with only the stars overhead to guide them north. Once again, he remembered, Arya trying to convince him that moss only grew on the south side of a tree. He’d thought that was stupid then, and he thought it was stupid now, and Arya did not make any such claim whenever they saw their garrons eating the stuff, nudging aside snow that had been blown into the crevices of the bark by the winter winds. 

They had seen the brilliant red leaves through the dark branches, and, even though they had so little daylight by which to travel, they made their way towards the branches and Arya dismounted before the tree, sinking nearly half a foot into the snow before being able to push her way through it towards the carved face.

Gendry watched her kneel down, watched her reach out a hand and brush the snow from the wooden, bleeding face as though her brother could truly feel it.  Ghost hulked along behind her and sat at her side, sniffing the face and licking at it.  Gendry wondered briefly if the wolf liked the taste of weirwood sap, or if it was sacreligious to eat the sap of a weirwood.  _Only the dark is dangerous_ , he thought, remembering what Thoros had said one night by their night fires.  _But not always dangerous—just unknown.  Men will call the darkness danger for they do not understand it, and mistake all shadows for the Great Other.  The night is dark and full of terrors, but it is only in facing our terror that we can be brave._

There had been something true about that.  Something that made nights in the cold, his sword freezing in his hand, his fear locking his throat bearable.  He was, in his terror, brave.  Without his terror, it could not be bravery.

He heard the distant murmur of Arya’s voice, and the rustle of branches, the whisper of the leaves rubbing together.   _There will be food at Castle Black. The ravens can smell it, but they cannot break through.  You should rest there for a day or two, let your horses regain strength. If you do not, they will die, and it will be too late._

He did not hear Arya’s reply, just the sound of her voice. 

_Yes, but it would be too late._

Arya again.

_You may die yet._

“We won’t.” He heard that clearly enough, her voice loud and stubborn.  He grinned. 

_I hope not._

Arya did not reply to that. He saw Ghost raise a paw and rest it on the tree’s face.

_There is nothing.  Such a life would be a curse, Jon, not a blessing._

The wolf hung his head, and Arya reached out a gloved hand and buried it in his fur. 

Gendry turned to the garrons who were turning to look at the sun.  It was low in the sky again, sending a dull yellow and orange across the snow.  Gendry stared at it, though he knew you weren’t supposed to stare at the sun.  Just looking at it reminded him of…of what? Of home?  He’d never had one.  Of happiness?  He hadn’t had that either.  Of the running of rivers, the burbling sound that echoed from trees as he woke to the dawn and felt Arya curled up next to him.  Of staring into the night fires and feeling a warmth on his face that stuck, and didn’t go away, a lightness that filled his whole body and reminded him that warmth and light would return to this earth, for the heroes may have fallen, but their efforts had saved him, had saved them all.

“ _Sacrifice is one of those words that sounds better than it is,”_ Thoros had once told him.  “ _And it’s more often than not someone saying they gave up something they didn’t like for their own good, rather than giving up something they loved for the greater good of man.”_

He thought of Jon Snow. He had sacrificed his life, Arya’s laugh, Rickon’s smile for the lives of all the rest of them. And Gendry?  He had sacrificed nothing.  What did he value enough to sacrifice?

The answer was obvious, and he knew he never would.  _I’m not as selfless as Jon Snow_ , he thought bitterly, watching as Arya bent her head and rested it on the wolf’s shoulder.  _And she’ll never love me as much as she loved him._

He heard her voice in his mind before his own.  _Don’t be stupid.  He’s my_ brother _._

Gendry wasn’t her brother. He’d never been, and he certainly wasn’t now, not growing painfully hard against her every night, even though she was bleeding.  She’d stopped bleeding the day before. He shouldn’t notice that.  That was a woman’s business, a private matter, but all the same, he knew.

Gendry had never had a brother.  Once, Arya had gone on and on about a different one—a king who’d kill every Lannister there ever was.  He wondered what a brother was like—or a sister.

He thought vaguely of that girl, Bella, from the Peach.  He wondered what she’d do if he showed up and said that she was his sister. Laugh at him, probably. If she weren’t dead.

He’d hated every time Arya had mentioned Robb Stark too.  _She has brothers that aren’t you, and all you’ve got is her._

That was still true. She still had Bran, and Rickon.

And he didn’t even have her.


	6. Arya; Gendry

Jon stopped short when they reached the top of a hill, his whole body going still—except his tail which was flicking.  Arya nudged Thistle forward with her knees, knowing the poor garron was tired, and hungry. _Me too_ , she thought, patting her neck.  _Me too.  But we’ll rest soon._

She saw why when she pulled even with Jon.

This had to have been where the Wall had once stood. 

She saw the empty frame of some buildings, half collapsed from the weight of the snow, and shards of ice that looked more like broken glass than anything else, which spread out for miles and miles and miles.  Some of them were huge—the size of her, or bigger even.  But mostly, she was aware of an emptiness—a great wide emptiness as if something big had once been there and it wasn’t. There were trees in the distance, and trees behind her, but however thick it had stood, there was nothing but ice chunks resting in snow, and what even looked almost like a river.

Arya rubbed her eyes.

There couldn’t be running water here, could there be?  It was almost too much to hope, a sign of spring more precious even than the inching daylight that crept along.  There _was_ more daylight now. More than there had been in ages, but still not enough for a day to feel like, well, a day.  Arya _longed_ for the sunlight she’d known as a child, hours upon hours of light that lasted well past her bedtime and her mother had had to shutter the windows of the bedroom she and Sansa shared lest her girls be unable to sleep. _Summer_ , she thought longingly.  It felt like a dream, distant, forgotten.  But if there was a river…it would make sense if there were a river. That’s what might happen if a seven hundred foot wall of ice collapsed. It might make a river. Or a channel, like what had happened when the Neck had snapped.

“Do you think it really was eight hundred feet tall?” Gendry asked her.  He’d come up behind her, Anvil a little slower than Thistle, and his eyes were pointed the same way that hers had been before she’d turned to look at him.  His eyes were so clear, sometimes.  Blue like the sky.  Or blue like the sky would be if it weren’t night all the time. 

She saw Jon nod, and she said, “Yes.  It was.”

Gendry let out a whistle, his eyebrows raised, then he winced, and Arya bit back a grin. “Lips chapped?” she asked.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, and she turned back forward.

“Right,” she said. “Jon, lead the way!” Jon took off, Nymeria loping at his heels, and Arya nudged Thistle forward. 

It was mercifully clear, and though they had to navigate through blocks of ice the size of houses, Arya found it almost peaceful.  It was as though the Wall had created some sort of tunnel that blocked wind and snow and the closer to the remnants of the castle they got, the more it felt like they were sinking, not so much _through_ the snow as towards the earth.  By the time they reached the castle, Arya could even see what she thought just might be bits of dirt. 

Jon nudged open a door with his snout, and Arya dismounted and followed him inside, her eyes adjusting to the dingy room within.  It was a long hall, and Jon was already in the middle of it, standing in it, looking around.  Arya walked up behind him and ran her fingers through his fur.  “Memories?” she asked him, and he nodded his head up and down. She wondered what it would be like, to be back in a place that she’d known, that she’d called home, but not truly to be there, to be there as Nymeria.  It would be like running through the riverlands in her dreams, she suspected, though she doubted that the riverlands could ever compare to being here.  The riverlands had never been home, for all her pack had been there.  This though... 

She hugged him, and he rubbed his snout through her hair, and she closed her eyes, sinking into the smell of the wolf.  She almost thought she could smell him the way that Nymeria could, if she tried hard enough. Not nearly so rich, but definitely that distinct smell of _brother_ , of home and pack and happiness. 

She stood with him for a while, letting her mind go blank.  She took in the little details of the room—the tables had all been pushed aside, chairs had been knocked to the floor.  There was, in the back of the hall, a door which Arya supposed would lead to a kitchen.

Not really hoping for much, she let go of Jon’s fur and walked towards the door.  It was stuck, and Arya had to push against it with her shoulder before it gave way.

She heard a scuttling, a clicking of something against wood, and it was too dark to see, but she knew what rats sounded like, she’d heard them too much both with her own ears and with the ears of dockside cats. 

It said a great deal about how hungry she was, about how little she and Gendry had eaten that her first thought was to slam the kitchen door shut to keep the rats in. What they had been eating did not matter to her, how they had survived was of little consequence, but Bran had said there would be nourishment in Castle Black, and there was. Rats.  She’d eaten rat before.  She’d eaten _bugs_ before, ants and beetles and the like.  Rats were positively mouthwatering as a prospect. She looked over her shoulder at Jon.

“Will you want to eat rat too, or can you smell other game?”

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t even reply.

“Jon?”

He sat down and curled up to go to sleep and when Arya went to go and run her fingers through his fur again, the fur on his nose wrinkled in a silent snarl.

She stiffened.

“Jon?”

His hackles were up, his teeth were bared, and she snatched her hand back, surprised. What could she have possibly—?

“Ghost?”

The wolf cocked his head and sniffed at her.  His eyes were different somehow.  Less thoughtful, less sad, more…

Arya felt her breath coming quickly, felt hot tears on her face.

“No,” she blurted, her voice cracking.  “No, Ghost. Please.  Jon.  _Jon_.”  She sank to her knees in front of the wolf and he watched her, his head cocked still.  His hackles weren’t up anymore, and his teeth weren’t bare. He was growling his silent growl, she could tell. But he didn’t rub his nose through her hair, or lick the tears from her face. He just…he just watched her. “Please,” she begged him. “Please not yet. Not yet, please. Jon.”  She closed her eyes and found Nymeria’s skin, and the world went a little more grey.

She had been in the yard, watching as her girl’s mate had put the horses into a stable. He was now opening and closing doors, looking for her girl perhaps, or for a place to lie.  Nymeria padded away from him, into the room where her girl was kneeling on the floor, her eyes blank as she stared at her brother. _Her_ brother.  Wolf brother. Not man brother.

 _Jon_ , Arya thought.  _Jon please._ Nymeria’s nose was good, and she would know, because somehow she could always tell when there was even a trace of Jon in Ghost, or Rickon in Shaggy. 

Nymeria saw the wolf, though.  She saw the wolf and she felt her heart race even though it was the girl’s panic and not her own that gnawed at her.  He was not gone—not yet.  He was in his wolf the way that her girl had been in her when he had fallen.  Weak, sad, alone, scared, but unlike her girl, he had nowhere to go.  Nowhere but Ghost. 

Arya opened her eyes and saw Nymeria standing there, watching her and Ghost.  She stumbled to her feet and turned away from the two of them, pelting towards the door.  When she reached it, she glanced over her shoulder. Nymeria had settled on the floor beside Ghost and was licking his snout.  She heard herself make a strangled sob and pushed out into the yard.

Her tears froze on her face and the pain of it only made her want to cry harder. _You stupid , stupid,_ stupid!  She knew better than to cry when it was so cold. What was she doing crying anyway? It hurt, but she wasn’t a baby. She wasn’t a baby, and she hadn’t wept like this even when Jon had _died_ , or when Father and Mother had died, but here she was, crying, unable to stop even though the water froze on her face.

 _Maybe it will freeze and break my skin_ , she thought as she crossed the yard.  _Maybe my skin will have icy scars like tears the way that mother had bloody ones_. 

She hadn’t cried when Needle had gone into her mother’s belly.  She’d been numb for days, unable to think, hardly able to breathe, but she hadn’t cried.  But Jon was dead and Jon was fading into his wolf, and she was bawling like a little baby as she’d bawled for neither of her parents.

 _You couldn’t_ , she thought, reaching up and pinching her cheeks, hoping to startle herself out of crying.  _You couldn’t have cried for father.  They’d have known you were a stupid silly girl if you had.  And when mother and Robb were killed_ …numb.  She’d been numb.  The way her cheeks were now.  Her cheeks were numb, but she wasn’t, she hurt. She hurt so much. She’d lost Jon already how many times?  When he’d gone north and she’d gone south—did that even count?  Surely it couldn’t, not when the other times were…

Her knees gave way underneath her again. 

The other times were death. Death and fading. No different roads leading to the same castle.  Just death and the wolf. And maybe, one day, Arya would be there too, but not today—not soon.  And death…what was death?  Was death one thing, or was it many?  Was it everything or nothing?  Was there truly only one god, and that god was him of many faces? Because she knew what it was to serve him of many faces, and she did not…could not…would not…

She saw her own face—the face of Arya of House Stark—dark, hollow, lifeless.

She began gulping down cold air, and looked up at the sky, glad for once of the cold sting on her face that reminded her of just how far away she was from that room with its many faces on the wall, the sticks and the slaps and the slow attempt to remove everything that made her _her_ , more thorough, more meticulous than Jeyne Poole’s attempts when she’d been a child.

She felt hands on her shoulder and she twisted and shot an elbow back.

“Ow!” she heard Gendry huff, and she turned to look up at him.  He looked at her tear-stained, tear-worn, tear-broken face and ran his gloved hands over her cheeks.  She couldn’t feel them.  She couldn’t feel anything except her heart fighting in her chest, fighting to keep on…keep on what?  Why would she want to keep feeling when it hurt so badly?

Gendry knelt next to her and drew her close, wrapping his arms around her and she buried her face into his neck.  His skin burned against hers somehow, even if she knew he was cold too.  Burned hot, and he smelled like Gendry, like falling leaves and sweat, and laughter, and home and she shuddered as she continued to cry into his neck.  He ran his fingers over her hair, holding the back of her neck, and she found her lips against his throat, his pulse beating against them in sharp jerks that sent a tremor through her.  She sucked at his neck, the taste of his skin, and felt his chest rising and falling—not steadily.  Definitely not steadily and his hands had shifted from the back of her neck to cup her chin and he was pulling her face away, pulling it up, and it was his lips against hers now, his lips and his breath breathing into her, so warm a hint of spring, and she felt his beard rubbing against her cheeks as he held her, the ice on her face having melted against his skin somehow.

She sighed, and wrapped her arms around him, pulling herself as close to him as she could manage, and Gendry held on to her and she never wanted him to let go.

She was trembling as she cried.  Trembling in his arms, and kissing him, and so long as he lived he would never forget this moment, the taste of her mouth against his, the way his heart thudded in his throat as he held her, and she held him. 

Gendry hadn’t ever really kissed anyone before.  He’d not really wanted to, or rather, he’d wanted to kiss, but hadn’t found anyone he _wanted_ to kiss. Not until Arya had reappeared. And he had wanted to kiss her, but so too, it seemed, had everyone else.  But she was kissing him now, their lips chapped from cold and wind, and it was as though her breath flowed into his body and reminded him what it was to be…to be what?  He didn’t know.

But there was something about Arya Stark in his arms that was right, that was how it should be, and even Lem’s warnings of “you won’t be kissing no princesses” fluttered from his head, because he _was,_ but he wasn’t kissing a _princess_ , he was kissing Arya.   It was Arya whose hands were gripping his back, it was Arya who was kneeling with him in the snow and it was Arya who had stopped crying and who was breathing heavily, her breath tickling the hair on his upper lip.

He wondered if she noticed that he didn’t seem to know what he was doing.  She didn’t seem to care if she did.  She certainly seemed to know what she was doing, and Gendry pushed away the question that bubbled up automatically that asked who she’d been kissing, if it had been prissy Lord Dayne, or someone else. It didn’t matter _who_ she had kissed, he reminded himself firmly. It mattered that she was kissing him, and that as her lips moved, they taught his until he felt completely sure that he was kissing her at least decently, if not very well. She certainly seemed to have sunk into him, but that might just be her own exhaustion, or whatever had made her cry.

Was she only kissing him because she was crying?  Because she needed some sort of comfort from something, and he was there, as good as anyone else?  He did his best to push that thought from his mind, but barely a moment after he’d thought it, he heard a creaking of wood, and suddenly her lips were gone.  Gone, as she twisted away from him far too soon for his liking, and he saw her looking towards the door of the hall she’d just come out of.

Ghost was standing there, watching them, his head cocked.  He was backing away slowly, as though he didn’t want to interrupt, but he already had and Arya was on her feet, pelting towards him.  “Jon,” she called, and wrapped her arms around his furry neck, and buried her face in his fur as moments before she’d buried her face in Gendry’s neck.  She was murmuring things in his ear, and the wolf twisted against her and rubbed his snout through her hair and she was shaking again, crying again. Gendry did his best not to sigh as he got to his feet, whatever warmth and joy he’d felt while kissing her cooled away by the winter air. 

 _She doesn’t want you_ , he thought bitterly. _Don’t be stupid.  She wants her brother, and she can’t have him._ Would she have kissed her brother like that? She’d definitely kissed Gendry. She’d definitely wanted to, if she hadn’t she would have broken away from him and hit him and called him stupid and run off the way she always did when he was being stupid. _If it wasn’t just for comfort._ He hated that thought.  Hated it well and truly.  _Even if she does want you, she wants him more. Wants him alive._

He got to his feet slowly and turned away from her, going into a building where he’d deposited their sacks and the saddlebags before he’d brought the horses into the stables. _It’s always me that does this_ , he thought bitterly to himself. _Probably because I’m the one that’s lowborn.  She doesn’t necessarily think to help._

He could feel anger rising in him, could feel frustration, bitterness, everything. 

She was supposed to want him.  That was the whole point.   That she’d gone to rescue him every time, that she wanted him to go with her, that he _should_ have gone with her. _You’re part of her pack_ , he told himself firmly as he unwrapped their sleeping furs and laid them before the empty hearth.  _You’re a part, not the whole.  It’s not your bleeding fault that you’re not special.  If anything, it was stupid of you to assume you were, you upjumped bastard._

He went back outside, looking for a wood box, or bits of fallen building that could burn. Arya had disappeared with Jon Snow again, and he felt his jaw clench.  _She is allowed to want to spend time with her brother_ , he told himself firmly.  But he felt hot and cold all at once, and some weird emptiness in his chest that he didn’t like.  She’d just run off.  Right after they’d kissed.  She’d just broken away from him and gone off on her own and now who knew where she was.

He got a fire going, and stared at it for a good long while.  He wasn’t even praying, hoping for no glimpse of the future, he was just staring.   And he almost jumped out of his skin when Arya deposited four dead rats on the ground in front of him, their necks cleanly broken. 

“It’s not much, but it’s something.  There are more of them in the kitchens,” she said.  She began to skin and gut them, placing their innards in a pan to fry and handing their bodies to Gendry to spit and put over the fire. 

“This is what your brother meant when he said we’d find food here?” Gendry asked gruffly.

“I suppose. Jon’s sniffing at the larders, but I don’t think there’ll be much.  I don’t even know what these rats were eating to live.  I don’t know if I want to know.”

Gendry grunted, but didn’t look at her.  He just stared at the fire, and waited for the food to cook, because even the smell of cooked rat these days was enough to make his stomach growl. 

Arya rested her head on his shoulder and took his hand in her own.  “I’m sorry,” she muttered.  “I didn’t mean to run off like that.  It’s just…it’s Jon.”

 _I gathered_ , Gendry thought bitterly, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “Oh? What’s wrong?”

“He’s,” her voice was trembling again, “He’s fading.  Into the wolf.  I’m losing him all over again.”

 _You see you idiot?_ Gendry thought to himself, horror and sadness and confusion flooding through him.  _She was crying for a reason. She ran off for a reason._

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her to his side and she was sniffling, clearly trying not to cry again.  “Is it...will it happen soon?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Arya sobbed.  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything, just that he’s not there sometimes.  Sometimes he’s Ghost.  And I know when I was with Nymeria, sometimes she is stronger and sometimes I am, but I don’t know if Jon can get stronger again because he’s—he’s…” She swallowed. “dead.”  The word sounded hollow, and Gendry turned to face her at last.

She looked miserable. Miserable, hopeless, everything she should never look like again, and he reached a hand up to wipe away the single tear rolling down her cheeks.  “All men die,” he murmured to her.  “One day you will too.  I will. Everyone will. Jon’s here a little while longer, and a part of him will always be in Ghost.”  He had no idea if it was true.  A part of him suspected it wasn’t, but he saw the way that Arya was looking at him, hanging on to every word.  “He’ll always love you long after everyone is dead. And you have him a little while longer.  And you’ll have him so long as you live, because you’ll never stop loving him, even when he’s gone.”

Arya gave him a thin smile. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” she said.  “I’m glad you came. I would hate to be alone.”

Gendry felt his heart swell.  “I’m glad I came too,” he whispered.

She lifted her chin slightly, then, taking a deep breath, kissed him, softly, gently, sweetly.


	7. Arya; Gendry

Nymeria smelled her brother.  He was there, warm beside her, his mind more wolfish than it had been in a long while.

His scent was here. It had smelled of him ever since they had arrived in this odd ice and stone and wood place. It smelled faintly, but unmistakably of Ghost. 

It smells of him and him alone.  No other wolves, no pack. Just man.  Man and rat and horse and Ghost.  How lonely he must have been, a wolf without a pack.

But it was well.

He had always been her pack, and he still had her.  And when he was less wolf, then he would have her girl. 

Never lonely. Not Ghost.

* * *

 

It wasn’t different. No different than before. Arya wouldn’t let it be. She refused.

Except it was. When she drifted awake the next morning, it was to find Gendry’s cock hard against her hip, his hand on her ass, and she wanted nothing more than to bury her face in his chest and smell him, that scent that was salty, that was pack while being wholly different than pack. Her pack of a thousand wolves didn’t smell like Gendry. She smelled him through her own nose, not Nymeria’s.  That’s what it was. The nose that had learned once to recognize the different scents between man and woman, and Gendry smelled like no other man, like no one but him. 

Had he always smelled this way?  He must have, for him to smell so familiar.

Perhaps that was why she thought of him so intensely as pack, because once when she’d been a stupid little girl, she had thought that he, and Hot Pie, and once, Lommy Greenhands and a little girl called Weasel were her pack.  She had thought they were her pack, but maybe they had been. Pack could split off and come back. Jon and Ghost had, after all. And so had Gendry. Gendry had come back to her, and she had kissed him yesterday in the snow, and some of her pain had abated. And she had kissed him again by the fire and had only stopped because they needed to rest, and the warmth of the fire, glowing hot against the stone hearth and spreading through the room and Gendry warm against her had been lulling.

She wanted nothing more than to keep kissing him—to kiss him awake and run her hands over his chest and watch as his eyes opened in delight.

She grinned at the thought. Gendry was so rarely delighted and if anyone could make him so, it was _her_.

The last thing she wanted now was to pull away from him and out into the cold of the room. But she did.

She and Gendry took stock that day, reorganizing their sparse supplies, calculating how many rats they could kill and carry with them, and grinning at one another. At sunset, Arya heard the calling of a raven in the yard and she went back outside.

“Storm,” it squawked, “Snow.  Storm.  Soon.”  It sounded unused to words.

“Bran?”

“Storm.  Storm.  Tonight.  Tomorrow.  After.  Storm.”

Dread pooled in her stomach, and she turned to go back inside and walked headlong into Gendry, who had followed her outside.

“A storm,” he repeated, then looked towards the stables.  “We’ll need to feed them.”

“Do the mole ways connect to the stables?” she asked, thinking of the underground passages between buildings that Jon had once told her about. 

Gendry looked over her shoulders at Jon, who was bobbing his head in neither a nod nor a shake. The wolf made towards the stables, and Arya followed him.  He pushed aside fallen beams and pawed at a trap door that Arya opened. It was pitch black underneath, and she looked at him.  He was too big to fit.

“I’ll be alright,” she told him, rolling her eyes, and she dropped herself down into the passage, waiting while her eyes adjusted to the black.

It was no different from when she had been blind Beth with her beggar’s bowl.  She flared her nostrils and tasted the air. It was still, and dank, but she could not smell rot.  That was good. She reached out hands and found the wall and, sliding her foot along the passage floor, began to walk.

Ten steps turned into fifty, then another twenty, each very careful in case there was something blocking her way, or in case the passage dipped down lower all of a sudden.

In the distance, she heard a thunk, and Gendry’s voice.

“Arya!”

“I’m all right,” she called.

“Hurry up!”

“Are you in the stable, or in the—”

“In the tower.”

“Keep calling. I’ll follow your voice.”

When she reached the trap door beneath him, she reached up and took his hands and he pulled her up as effortlessly as if she’d been as small as Rickon. He looked peeved as she straightened.

“I’m fine.”

“You could have given some warning.”

She rolled her eyes. “What about?”

“I don’t know—what if it had collapsed on top of you?”

She rolled her eyes again. “Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. The foundation isn’t exactly firm and—”

“Well, we needed to see if it had given out at all.  Do you want to go out in a full storm to feed the horses if we don’t have to?” The storms that they’d ridden through were enough to make Gendry shudder, and Arya was suddenly wildly thrilled that they had four walls to stay inside tonight. 

Gendry grunted, and she grinned and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him again quickly.  “See?  I know what I’m doing.” 

He wrapped his arms around her waist, and their lips met again, and Arya’s tongue was dancing with Gendry’s now, and her heart was pumping strong blood through her body.

At some point, they settled back on their furs, and Arya wondered idly what would happen if they didn’t stop kissing.  Sansa had been very good, not saying that going off with Gendry would ruin her. She could well be already ruined, for all anyone knew, ruined by some outlaw while she ran with wolves.

“ _It’s not love what ruins a woman,”_ Merry had said to Cat of the Canals.  “ _It’s everyone else, who tells her what love should be when it’s none of their bleeding business.”_

“ _Load of camel cunts_ ,” Cat had said, which had made Merry laugh.

“ _You’ll do just fine_ ,” she had replied.

Cat hadn’t known what that meant, but Arya thought she might now.

She reached down between them and cupped Gendry’s cock in her hand and he groaned into her mouth.

“Arya.” He went very still and pulled away, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” she said automatically, flinching.  He kissed her forehead.

“Nothing to be sorry about.”  His voice was thick. He wrapped his arms around her, his hand rubbing up and down along her spine.  His breathing slowed and it was not long before he drifted off to sleep, and Arya listened to the sound of his heart as she rested her head against his chest.

* * *

Gendry was glad of many things but at the moment, he was glad that for this storm, he and Arya were curled up and warm while the weather raged outside.  They ate rats by the fire, and smiled at one another and, every now and then, one of them would slip underground to check on the horses.

Arya went the first time and Gendry cleaned himself quickly while she was gone. He had not expected her to actually touch him—hadn’t at all.  And he blushed furiously at the memory.  He had fallen to pieces in seconds, and that was with his breeches still on and everything.  The others would piss themselves laughing if they knew, and Tom _still_ sang that bloody song about Lord Edmure’s floppy fish.

But as humiliating as that was, it didn’t change the fact that she had touched him—that Arya had…that she had wanted…

She curled so well in his arms when they slept.  She fit so perfectly against his chest.  What wouldn’t he do to keep her right there?  She belonged there—with him.  And, he thought, he hoped, she might just be coming to realize it too.

* * *

The day after the storm ended, they rode out of Castle Black, following Ghost and Nymeria as they picked their way through the giant chunks of ice that had once been the Wall. Their bellies as full of rat as they could manage, and with as many rats as they dared carry packed away and dangling off their horses, they rode north. 

The wind hit them the second they passed out of the chunks of ice, and Gendry heard Arya unleash a stream of curses and he turned to look at her.  She was fumbling with a thick scarf, wrapping it around her face and tucking it into the fur lining of her cloak. Not for the first time, Gendry was glad of the beard on his face, though that didn’t protect him entirely from the cold. He hunched over and bowed his head and wondered how on earth the horses did without any fur on them at all.

The days dragged on. It had been nearly two months since they’d left Winterfell.  “Good timing,” Arya told him, sounding as though she were trying her best to be optimistic.

“How is this good?” he demanded grumpily.

“Well, it took Bran longer,” she said.  “They were walking and couldn’t take the main road lest someone recognize them, and got lost a few times.  Though I suppose we have more snow to go through.”

“Lucky us, then,” he said.

Arya snorted bitterly, and he was glad that at least she too could only look so positively on making “good time” north.

The wind was less strong in the woods than it had been on the Kingsroad, and the snow was harder beneath their horses’ hooves.  Sometimes, they came across tracks in the snow—wolves, or bears, but never game. Never game.  From time to time, they found an abaondened hamlet, houses of wood that had almost drowned in snow, and which Arya and Gendry broke through the roofs in order to enter.  They never had any food, but at least they were some sort of protection from the cold, and if they were going to shiver their way to sleep, at least they could do so indoors.

And though they ate the rats as slowly as they dared, the time did come at last when there were no more. They made thin broth of their bones, and at night, they burrowed into the snow and made little caves that made the cold a little less biting.

The wolves stayed close only when they slept, curling around one another as Arya and Gendry curled around each other and as Thistle and Anvil huddled together. But Gendry could see, and he was sure that Arya could too—that they all six of them, Thistle and Anvil, Ghost and Nymeria, Arya and Gendry, grew thinner, and thinner. 

The only thing that made it bearable at all was Arya.  Arya, who would call out to passing ravens in the hopes that Bran would hear her, Arya, who was never daunted, even on nights when they went to bed hungry, unable to find even the frozen carcasses of owls or birds.

“I could kill those ravens and eat them,” Gendry muttered to Arya one night.

“When we have Bran,” she promised him, and he could hear the hunger in her voice. “If they are his eyes, I would have them.  I’m sure he sends animals our way.”

And after that, Gendry noticed it—noticed the way that whenever they saw birds, they’d find a fox that had somehow survived this far, or a deer that had starved but had somehow starved more recently than whatever it was the wolves found. Once they even found a shadowcat that had made its way down from the Frostfangs. When they passed the weirwood groves, Gendry stared at the tree’s faces, and wondered…wondered what? Was Bran sending himself into these animals so they would die in his and Arya’s paths?  The thought made him shudder. 

He wondered what Arya would do if she had to do that.  Could she? He had seen her skinchange into cats—she’d even gone into the rats at Castle Black to soothe them before going and killing them.  He wondered what that must be like, to possess a thing in order to slaughter it. He couldn’t imagine that it was pleasant. 

Arya’s face was growing gaunt.  Her grey eyes seemed to sink into her skull as her cheeks grew more hollow.  She was tired all the time, and Gendry was too, exhaustion and hunger crippling them, sending pains through their muscles, through their skulls. But where Gendry would have stopped, Arya persisted.  _She has more force of will than anyone I’ve ever met_ , he thought in wonder.  She set her jaw and mounted Thistle and before Gendry could even complain, she was nudging the poor hungry horse forward. 

He heard her mutter sometimes right before she fell asleep.  Once, she’d muttered the names of Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Gregor, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, King Joffrey, the Hound—he’d known those names by rote as well.  He’d heard them before falling asleep, long after Arya had disappeared.  But now, it was just the one name, every night, after she’d stopped kissing him, “Bran.  Bran. Bran.”

He tried not to mind that. He did try.  Whatever drove her forward, and he’d known how those muttered names kept her determined when she’d been ten. 

But this was different. This name was love, not rage and pain. Love for a brother she had not seen since she was nine, love for a mother, a father, and another two brothers she had not been able to save, love for the sister and brother she had left back in Winterfell.  And it was true, she kissed him when they climbed into their furs, her lips hot against his neck, her body too thin in his arms, but it wasn’t his name she was muttering, it wasn’t his name she was praying for.  It was Bran Stark’s.

First it had been Robb Stark, the King in the North, the Young Wolf, who was running circles around the Lannisters, and whom Arya had been determined to find at Riverrun. Then it had been Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, her favorite brother, who rubbed her hair and called her little sister and who had died to save the Seven Kingdoms. And now it was Bran Stark, the King of Winter and a bleeding _god_.

_And I’m just Robert Baratheon’s bastard blacksmith upjumped knight._

And even if Arya kissed him, and moaned when his fingers twined in her hair, it did not matter anywhere near so much. 

 _She said she was glad you came with her_ , he reminded himself. _She said she was glad you were here.  She wants you here.  You’re her pack, remember?_

But what did it matter if he was her pack if he wasn’t the most important part of her pack? And he never would be. Not ever. 

But she didn’t seem to know.  Or if she did, it didn’t matter to her anywhere near so much as “Bran.  Bran.  Bran.” Or Jon the Wolf.  

And when she kissed him, he could forget that.  He could. But when she finished and murmured her nightly prayer, he remembered and wished he didn’t.

* * *

Jon was with her less and less. He was with her less and less, and even when she was in Nymeria’s skin while she slept or while they rested the horses, he faded. She could see it in his eyes. They were less and less…less and less Jon. More and more like Nymeria, when she wasn’t with Nymeria.  And each day, when she awoke, she was more and more terrified that it would be the last time she saw Jon in Ghost’s eyes at all.

* * *

They found what had once been a wildling village.  They almost missed it, except that Nymeria, when pushing her way through the snow had stopped next to a huge snowbank, and sniffed, and dug.  She found the door, then pushed her way in, tail stiff and alert.

“We’ll camp here tonight?” Gendry suggested.  He was eying the house eagerly, and Arya knew he wanted to build a fire within the four walls. It would be smoky, but the walls would hold the heat, just a little bit, and for one night, they wouldn’t be so cold.

Arya chewed her lip and looked up overhead.  The sun hadn’t set yet—they could easily keep going for several more hours, but the thought of being warm and indoors again was too tempting to forego.  “Let’s see if we can bring the horses inside,” she said, and Gendry nodded.

“Not quite the stables of Winterfell, but they should fit,” he responded.

She longed for home. If anything, Castle Black had made her long for four walls, and staying put.  She longed for Winterfell, and the godswood and the castle and Rickon and Sansa.  And though she tried not to think of home, of the place she’d left behind, it was as though something inside her had changed since she’d kissed Gendry.  She had begun to wonder what Winterfell would be when she returned, to let herself imagine them all there—not just some dream, but really and truly there.  It was a solace on the days when she only saw a flicker of Jon in the wolf.

Anvil and Thistle were all too eager to be brought indoors as well, but Jon and Nymeria went off into the woods on their own—sniffing at trees, searching for anything that might even begin to resemble food.  Arya’s stomach growled at even the thought of eating, and Gendry rolled his eyes at her.

“That was helpful,” he snapped.  “Now I’m thinking of food too.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she sighed.  She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.  She hoped he was. She was too tired to bicker right now, and she suspected he was too.  He only grunted and went back outside, coming back with some thick branches that had fallen from the weight of the snow.  He laid them together, then began working at lighting the fire. Arya watched him, the way his hands rubbed the wood together. 

“Who taught you to light a fire?” she asked him. 

He looked up at her, his hands still rubbing the wood.  “I learned from another apprentice.  Named Allem.”

“What was he like?” she asked.  She didn’t know much of Gendry’s time at Mott’s.  He’d always been tight lipped and bitter about it, but now she wanted to think about anything that wasn’t how hungry she was. 

Gendry shrugged. “All right, I suppose. I was just a kid. He wasn’t at Mott’s much longer than that.  Went off and started his own forge.  In Maidenpool, I think.”

Arya nodded. She’d been to Maidenpool. She wondered if she’d seen him, or if his was one of the bodies that had so clogged the river during the war. She didn’t voice that thought.

“There was Allem,” Gendry was still talking, and she sat down near him to listen, “And Gevin, and Marc. They were all older and bigger than me, but by the time I was sixteen, I was the only one left. He didn’t have much more to teach me, but I was indentured until I was was eighteen.”  He grunted bitterly. 

“It was for the best you got out of the city.  You’d have been killed otherwise.”  She thought of King’s Landing through Nymeria’s eyes—dark clouds hanging over the city, eery and green. 

Gendry shrugged. “I suppose all men die. That’s what Thoros used to say. All men must die. Valar morghulis.” Arya shuddered. He frowned, looking at her. “You used to say that all the time. After you muttered all those names.”

She flushed. “So?  It’s a phrase,” her voice was quick and higher than she wanted it to be.  _He just knows the phrase.  Knows I used to say it.  Anyone who speaks a Valyrian language knows what valar morghulis means.  It's just a way of saying hello.  He doesn’t know about him of many faces._ “And they were bad men. They deserved to die.”

Gendry looked at her for a moment, and he had some look in his eye—

“What are you frightened of?” he asked her, bluntly.

“What?”

“Frightened of. You keep doing that. Sometimes.  Have since you came back to Westeros.  You get all nervous whenever anyone mentions Braavos.”

“You get all nervous whenever anyone mentions Riverrun,” Arya points out.

“Yes, but that was carnage. This is different. You’ve got a secret and you’re not sharing it.”

“A girl’s allowed her secrets,” she said, and she was back in the hall of faces, and the Kindly Man—who didn't look quite so kindly now—putting on the face of Jaqen H’ghar, and grabbing her shoulders. She blinked furiously. It was dark in the hut, but not so dark as that.  She turned away from Gendry and looked at the fire.  “Are you going to light that, or do you need help?”

Gendry snorted. “Like you’d be able to light this better than me.”

“Could too,” she snapped.

“Could not.” And, at just that moment, the flame caught, orange and red, and Gendry bent down to blow on the flames and spread them to the other branches.  When satisfied that it was properly caught, he got to his feet again.  “I’m going to go look for more wood.  Want to help? You can stay and warm up if you like.”

Arya rolled her eyes and got to her feet as well, and together they went out into the cold.

Later, when they were seated in front of the fire, boiling down the bones of the shadowcat they’d found the other day, Gendry asked her again.

“It’s a big secret?”

“Leave it.”

“Bigger than your—”

“I said leave it, Gendry. It’s not worth dying for.”

“You dying or me?”

“Both of us, probably.” Her voice sounded hollow, even to her own ears. 

Gendry raised his eyebrows.

“Look—” he began, but Arya cut him off again.

“No. I know what I’m talking about. This isn’t something that you can make me talk about, Gendry—it’s not.  They’ll kill us both if you know.”

“How will they know, Arya?”

“They know everything.”

“We are in a hut in the middle of nowhere.  Not even _Bran_ can hear us here.”

“And when we get back? What if you let something slip?”

“I don’t even know what I might let slip, but have I ever been the type to let something slip to strangers?  Especially something important?”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t.”

“And what about you? What if _you_ let something slip?”

 _I won’t_ , she thought, and she saw her own face again, sprawled and dead before her, grey eyes open, mouth gaping.  Much too much like how Jon looked when the sword of ice had run him through.  _There wasn’t anything you could have done. Even if Gendry hadn’t held you back._

It was strange. She wasn’t angry that he’d held her back anymore.

“You already have enough that I’ve noticed,” Gendry pointed out.  “You start chewing your lip and stop sometimes.  You get brusque when you talk about Braavos, and act like it would be better if people thought you’d never been.  You mention the names of these girls—Mercy and Cat and Beth—and—”

“I’ve _never once_ said those names,” Arya said her eyes going wide. She _hadn’t_. No one knew them.

“You mutter them in your sleep sometimes.  ‘No—that was Cat, not Beth.  Please. Beth never saw. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy, what a nice girl that Mercedene.’”  Panic seized her. Panic unlike anything she’d felt. Gendry shouldn’t know those names. He shouldn’t know at all.

 _“Quiet, Gendry_ ,” she hissed, as though they could hear him.

“Who are they, Arya? People you killed?”

She stiffened, inhaling sharply.  They were all gone—Cat of the Canals, and Blind Beth, and Mercy, Mercy, Mercy. All gone because they’d never lived, but she supposed that Arya of House Stark had killed them in the end…her and her refusal to be no one. 

She stared at him, and he stared back, and she saw his eyes go wide, and she knew he thought she was confirming it.  “They’re as dead as Arry, Weasel, Nan, Salty—”

“Salty’s you again?” he asked and she nodded.  “These girls—Cat and Beth and Mercy—they’re you?”

“They’re no one.”

“They’re clearly someone.”

“Gendry, please.”

“Arya.”

She closed her eyes and for a moment she was with Nymeria, running through the trees, smelling the cold, and the pine. _The Night Wolf_. She hadn’t thought of Nymeria as the Night Wolf in years—not a wolf, or the wolf, but her wolf. Part of her, part of Arya of House Stark.  _She always was a part of me.  Even when she was a pup.  I couldn’t get rid of her, even if I had to throw stones._ She remembered Nymeria leaping at Joffrey, her own fury with the prince, then with Queen Cersei for Lady, even after Nymeria was gone.  Lady hadn’t been there.  _I didn’t used to be afraid of what would happen if I told the truth._

 _I’m not now_ , she thought angrily at herself. _This is_ different.

It was. It was life or death. Her life, Gendry’s life. _She’d have killed you if she dared for hitting Joffrey. You didn’t care then. It was the truth._

_Mycah’s truth.  Joffrey’s truth…It’s different. It’s not him of many faces._

She looked at Gendry. He was watching her closely, his eyes glowing bright in the firelight.  It felt like a lifetime ago, when she’d been practicing swordplay with sticks and Mycah.

“You just got sad,” Gendry whispered and he scooted closer to her and wrapped his arms around her. She let herself bury her face in his neck.  He was so warm—warmer still because the fire warmed the room, and she let herself inhale the smell of him. 

“I didn’t tell Jon,” she whispered.  “He asked too. And Sansa doesn’t ask, but she wants to know.  And Rickon’s too young. He wouldn’t understand…”

“Whatever it is can’t hear you here,” Gendry whispered, his arms tightening around her.

“It’s not here I’m worried about.  It’s later. It’s in Winterfell, or wherever you end up.” She didn’t want to think of Gendry far from Winterfell. Somewhere, along the way, he had become part of the home she longed for, especially now that Jon was gone. “They showed me what they’d do to me if I told.”

“Who?”

“Them of Many Faces.”

Maybe if she didn’t call them the Faceless Men, he wouldn’t make the connection. She waited for a thunderclap, or some sign from the heavens that Him of Many Faces had heard.  _Death_. 

_All men must die.  Jon did. I will.  Gendry will.  It’s the way of things._

“What will they do to you?” Gendry whispered.

“Kill me.”

Gendry’s hand was running up and down her arm now.  “The Others tried and they failed.  I’d like to see these many faced morons try.”

And Arya felt herself laughing.  She sounded almost hysterical, but she couldn’t help it.  “Many faced morons,” she gasped between laughs, “They’ll kill you triply for calling them that.”

“Well, they are. Anyone who wants to kill you is a moron.”

She looked up at him. Suddenly it all seemed less frightening now.  She didn’t know why. “They taught me things.”

“Like what?”

“Death. Acting.  Convincing people of one thing when another’s true.”

“You were always good at that.  You didn’t need someone to teach you.”

“Lying.”

“Again,” Gendry said, rolling his eyes, and Arya elbowed him. 

“Is that all?” he said gently.

 _No_ , she thought, but she nodded.  He didn’t need to know the rest.  This was enough.  He didn’t need to know about Raff, and the black brother, and the ones she’d been _told_ to kill and had.

Him knowing this was enough.

And when she curled up in his arms that night, burying her face in his chest, she felt an odd lightness, as though some weight she’d worn for years had been taken from her chest.


	8. Arya; Gendry

They would not have known it was a river if the wolves had not gotten there first. It was frozen solid, and the wolves were pawing at the snow, pawing at it as though hoping they could dig through the ice to find fish beneath it. 

“How thick do you think the ice is?” Arya asked Gendry, hardly daring to hope that they could break through it to fish for a few hours.  It was the middle of the day, the sun was strong for the time being—if ever there was a time to try…she knew nothing about fishing in the ice, just that one could do it, that Rickon had spoken of the Skaggs who had taught him how to. What had he told her before she’d left? She couldn’t remember.  She felt stupid. She should have remembered, should have tried to, should have made him remind her before she’d gotten on her horse in the litchyard at Winterfell.  But she hadn’t, so she just stared at the iced river.

“I don’t know,” he said. He was surly.  Surly always surly.  She was sure she wasn’t much better.  Hunger did that to a person, and Gendry wore his hunger harder every day. But all the same, she wished there was something she could do to make him a little less surly. She wished she could think of something—anything—to talk about that didn’t make them think of how cold and hungry and exhausted they were.  But she couldn’t.  It was like she’d forgotten them all, like the cold had frozen her mind as well as everything else.

The only times she could get him to smile, or seem relaxed at all was right before sleep, when she would kiss him and they would rub together in their furs and sometimes she would slide her hand down the front of his breeches and pump at his cock until he cried out and his seed spilled hot in her hand.  Sometimes, Gendry would run his hands up the front of her tunic, or down the front of her breeches as well, but never felt the same pleasure that he did from her hands.  She felt that she could, but not unless she stripped off the breeches entirely, and it was too cold for that, even between their furs.  At least, that was what she told herself.  It felt good enough, Gendry’s hands on her.  It felt better than good, sometimes, his fingers wet with her, and hers wet with him.

“We should see if we can fish,” she said to him.  He grunted, and, once they had crossed the frozen river, he dismounted and tethered Anvil beside a tree.  The horse immediately began to gnaw at the tree’s bark, and Arya wondered what would happen if she tried to do the same.  She wondered if the horses would die.  If the horses died, they’d at least have something to eat, wouldn’t they?  _Don’t think about that._    She shuddered.

She and Gendry went back to the ice and Gendry drew his sword and began hacking at the ice.

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Arya said.

“Do you have a better idea?” he demanded.

“Not really,” she admitted. She wished she had a spear. She felt that would be better somehow. Not that they knew how thick the ice was.  It was probably too thick. And besides, even if it _was_ thick, what was the likelihood that there would be fish under it.  They probably had swum away, or been eaten by the Free Folk before they’d fled south. _Don’t be dire_ , she scolded herself, and looked around. There was a raven sitting in a tree, watching them. 

“Will there be food?” she asked it, but it did not reply—it flew off. 

“You should stay back,” Gendry told her.

“What?”

“I don’t want you falling through the ice.”

“You’re bigger and heavier than I am.”

“Yeah, but your brother’s the one waiting for you.  I’m more expendable.”

She rolled her eyes and went back to the horses.  Jon and Nymeria were nowhere nearby.  She briefly slid into Nymeria’s skin and felt the wolf’s excitement.  There was an elk nearby—hungry, thin, weak. An elk, how sweet its blood would taste in her mouth.

Arya could cry—she knew the wolves would leave no meat for them, and she felt a flicker of Nymeria’s guilt before a sharp crack and a shout filled her ears and she snapped back to her own body.

She whirled around. There was no sign of Gendry—only a huge hole in the ice where he’d been, with black water already freezing to the surface.

“Gendry? Gendry!” She pelted towards the ice, reaching the edge where he had fallen through.  She unhooked Needle’s sheath from her belt and jammed the hilt beneath the water.  “Please,” she sobbed. “Please, please, _please_.  You’re _not_ expendable, you great big stupid.  _Please!_ ”  She didn’t—she couldn’t think about what she would do if Gendry—but no. No, no he wouldn’t. He couldn’t drown.

He couldn’t drown, but he could freeze.

Fear shot through her. Pure fear, unlike anything she’d felt in ages. 

“Gendry!” she screamed again and felt a tug on Needle’s handle, and pulled.  His arm appeared and she grabbed it with her right hand then let go of Needle and threw the sword aside and pulled, wishing she had something— _anything_ to help her. “You are bigger and heavier than I am you _stupid_ ,” she cried. His head was above water now and he was gasping and gulping for air and his other arm was grabbing at the ice. Arya let go of him and gripped him under his armpits and heaved, until he was safely on the ice, gasping and gulping and shivering, his lips already blue.

“No,” she blurted and she pulled him to his feet.

“Arya,” he moaned, his teeth chattering. 

It sounded like death.

She half dragged half pushed him to the horses, and grabbed the furs and threw him down onto them, covering him completely, then wriggling down between them as well and peeling away the wet wool and leather that he wore. 

“What are you—”

“They’ll freeze on you,” she said.  They’d already begun, gods be good, wool stiff against her hands, but she kept on stripping them away until they were gone and he was naked.  She wrapped her arms around him, holding him as close as she could, lying on top of him, and willing what warmth she had down onto him and he clung to her as though she were life itself.  She probably was.  _Gods, you had better not let him freeze_ , she thought bitterly. To come all this way, through hunger and darkness and everything just to have Gendry freeze to death.

She would go mad.

Mad like her mother before and after she had died.

She rubbed her hands up and down his arms and chest, fast, willing them to warm his skin, and kissed him hard, praying for his lips to go pink again and not blue, not blue and frozen the way that Jon’s corpse had been.

She sobbed. _Not Gendry too, please.  Please not Gendry too._

He kissed her back and she prayed she was only imagining it when she thought even his breath seemed cold.

“Arya,” he said, his lips still chattering.

“You’ll be all right,” she said, told, commanded.  “You’ll be warm. _Warm_.”

“Arya.” He sounded scared.

“ _All right_ ,” she repeated.

“Don’t leave me.”

“Never. Never never never.”

And she kissed him again, then he buried his face into her neck.  Even his beard was cold icy, and the hair on top of his head.

She lifted her face up, and felt her face contort as if she were crying and she slipped into Nymeria’s skin.  The warmth of elk blood filled her mouth, the joy of a kill, the wish that she did not have to share with her brother, but knowing that he was pack and pack kept you alive so you kept pack alive and _come back now._

Nymeria was bigger and warmer than she was, and she knew that the wolf would finish her food, should finish her food, but that it would not be long.

“The wolves will come back,” she told Gendry, kissing his forehead.  She took his hands and slid them inside her sweater, warming them against her skin, pretending not to notice that they, too, were blue. “When they are, they’ll keep you warmer than I can.”

“Don’t leave me,” he said again.

“I won’t. But Nymeria will warm you better than I can.”  She had to make him understand through his fear—that Nymeria was warm and soft and could cover all of him, even his feet.  Gods—his _feet_.  How many soldiers had she seen with feet black and frostbitten. They’d had to saw them away in the end, and that was it—they were doomed to a life where they could no longer walk. She lifted herself off him and he yelped until he realized she was curling his legs up, tucking his knees to his chin so that she could grab hold of his feet and rub them.

“Can you feel my hands?” she asked him.

“N-no.”

“Your feet are frozen.”

“You’re rubbing my feet?”

“Yes, Gendry. I don’t want your toes to fall off.” Where was Nymeria?

“My feet.”

“Yes, stupid, your feet.”

His lips were on her neck and she wondered what on earth was going through his head. _He’s scared for his life_ , she thought.  _I’m scared for his life. Nymeria._

She slid into Nymeria’s skin again.  She was running through the wood, her blood running hot, her stomach full of flesh. She was running, and she could smell them—smell the girl and her dying mate.

She pelted towards the pile of furs and settled herself on top of it and she was Arya again, wriggling away from Gendry’s arms and lips.

“Arya!” he cried out but his yelp turned into a hiss as the full weight of Nymeria and all her heat settled on top of him.  Trembling, Arya stared at the wolf. 

“I’m here,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” His voice was muffled.

“Can you breathe?”

“Sort of.”

Arya’s heart was in her throat, and she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing sharply through her nose. She slid into Nymeria’s skin again, and felt him underneath her, trembling and breathing. 

She could smell his fear.

It was too much. Too much.  She opened her eyes again and covered her mouth with her hand and stared at Nymeria.  The wolf’s head was cocked, and her eyes were soft and Arya went to her and wrapped her arms around her neck.  “Keep him warm,” she said. “Don’t let him freeze.”

She went back to the river’s edge and fetched Needle.  There was already a thin layer of ice on top of where Gendry had fallen through and, a thin layer of ice on Needle’s hilt as well.  She brushed it away and, in a rage, Arya stabbed Needle through the ice, breaking it again.  To her complete surprise, a fish came up with Needle’s hilt and she gaped at it, too shocked to move.

Then she laughed.

 _Well, I got us dinner_ , she thought.  It was a small fish.  She remembered fish in the riverlands, great fat things with lots of meat on their bones.  This one would hardly fill her, much less the both of them, but it was something.  Her mouth was watering, imagining what it would taste like, spitted and cooking over an open fire.  She stumbled back to the horses to find Jon, dragging the elk’s corpse into the clearing and she gaped.  It was nothing more than bone and sinew—the wolves had cleaned its guts and flesh completely. But they had not cracked its bones for marrow and Arya stared at Jon for a moment.  Then she put Needle and the fish down and went and wrapped her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she could. “Thank you,” she whispered to him, and he nuzzled at her.

It took her a long while to light the fire.  Gendry had always done it, and Arya realized she’d never really lit many fires before. When she’d been alone with the pack, they’d needed stealth and who needed fire to keep you warm when you had a thousand wolves to sleep amongst. And besides all that, her hands were shaking. But she was pleased with the one she was able to light eventually.  She cleaned the fish, her hands steady, and set it in a pan to cook. Then she set about going through the bones that Jon had brought back. 

“Arya?” she heard Gendry call.

“I’m here.”

“Good.”

“Are you warmer?”

“Yes.”

“Can you feel your toes?”

“Yes.”

“And fingers?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I caught a fish and am cooking it for us.”

“You went back on the ice?” Even muffled, she could hear the annoyance in his voice, and she rolled her eyes.

“I had to get Needle,” she said.

“Arya—”

“I didn’t fall through. I’m careful.”  _Unlike you_ , she added silently. 

“My clothes?” he asked after a moment’s pause.  She had forgotten them.  She got to her feet again and dug them out from under Nymeria’s rump.  They were cold, and damp, and even as she held them, they began to grow stiff again.  She carried them over to the fire and, after a moment’s consideration, went to look for his sword and—

“Your sword’s lost.” It wasn’t a question. He hadn’t been holding it when she’d tugged him back through the ice and it hadn’t been with Needle.

He didn’t respond immediately.  “Yes. I suppose it is.”

Arya chewed her lip. She jammed Needle into the ground and hung his shirt on it, figuring that it might dry out before their fish finished cooking.

A raven cawed from a tree.

She rolled her eyes at it. “You could have warned us the ice was thin,” she said to it before stopping.

The ice was thin.

The ice was thin and it had not stormed in several weeks now.  There wasn’t much daylight still, but they had come so far north that mayhaps that wasn’t because winter was still hard upon them, but rather that they were so far north.  Somewhere, from long ago, she heard Maester Luwin’s voice telling her that in summer, the North had longer days than the south, while in winter, it had longer nights. And the further north they went…

Maybe spring was truly coming.  She hardly dared hope.

 _Bran_ , she thought, looking up at the stars overhead, _Did you bring the spring to us, Bran?_ She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself tightly, wishing Bran were there. _Soon_ , she thought.  _Soon.  He’ll be here soon._ She hadn’t seen him in so long—eight years.  Or nearly nine.  That made her sadder.  She’d felt the lone wolf, at times, but surely Bran had been more alone than she had been. With Rickon on Skagos, he’d been so far away from all of them, alone up here in the wilderness.

He was so far away, and she was closer—closer than any of them had been to him in years. _How much farther to go?_ She wanted to ask the question aloud, but almost dreaded the answer.  She did not know if she could bear another few months like this, not after the three they’d traveled already. 

She took the fish from the fire and brought it over to Gendry.

“If Nymeria moves, will you be very cold?” she asked him.  “I’ve brought you something to eat.”

“We’ll find out,” Gendry said.  He sounded nervous. Arya nodded to the wolf, and she got to her feet and went off a little ways to go and sit with the horses.

Gendry sat up, clutching the furs around him.  Arya sat down next to him and took out her dagger and cut the fish in half, handing him some. “Be careful of its bones,” she said.

“I’ve eaten fish before,” he grumbled, and took a bite.  His eyebrows flew up.  “This is delicious.”

Arya cut a piece and stuck it in her mouth and moaned in delight.  The fish was oddly sweet, and a little tough, but given that she’d had near nothing to eat in the past few days, this—this was perfect. She felt her body sag and she leaned against Gendry.  He was already taking another bite of fish, and before long they’d both picked every piece of meat clean so that only tiny bones remained. Gendry was licking grease from his fingers and there was something about the way he was doing it…

Arya couldn’t place what it was—maybe that his lips were so pink, or the focus with which he licked, but she leaned in and kissed him, hard on the mouth, and for the second time in however many hours it had been, she found herself lying on top of Gendry under their furs, her lips on his, his hands sliding up her shirt, but this time, not for warmth.  His hands were warmer now, and she gasped when they cupped her breasts, and felt her nipples stiffen against his fingers.

She loved the taste of him—the leftover flavor of the fish blending so finely with the flavor she’d come to love, that Gendry flavor, his tongue, his saliva, his breath all coming together with her as her tongue twined with his and she rested on her elbows so that she could run her fingers through his hair. It was dry now, and not icy at all, and his beard was soft against her skin and she felt heat pooling in her stomach, in her chest, between her legs.

He wasn’t wearing anything at all, and Arya couldn’t mind that in the slightest. She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, circled his nipples with her thumbs while he groaned into her neck, his hand fumbling with the ties of her trousers before slipping down between her legs to find the wetness there. 

She sighed when he touched her, sighed and stilled for just a moment, just a moment during which she could feel herself tremble against him, feel his fingers rubbing up and down her slit, and it was as though she could feel it in her arms, in her legs, in her chest, in her heart.  She closed her eyes for just a second, and rocked her hips back and forth into his hand, felt her lips twitch open and up before she bent her head to his neck and kissed him there, sucking his skin between her teeth. 

His cock was hard against her.  Sometimes against her stomach, other times against her leg, depending entirely on where her moving hips were taking her.  It was hard and there, completely in the open, and she didn’t have to fiddle down and pull it from his breeches, it was right there.  And when she reached down to take him in her hand, it was so soft and so hard all at once, skin that felt more delicate than silk, wrapped around something stiff, and long, and thick. 

She could do it. They could do it. They could.  There was nothing stopping them.  No one would know, but even if they did, what did that matter? The only thing that mattered was Gendry, underneath her, his breath short, his fingers between her legs, still as she pumped his cock. 

They could. They could if she wanted. If Gendry wanted…

“Do you?” she blurted out.

“What?”

“Do you want to?”

His head turned and he looked at her, but it was so dark and with them so covered in furs there was no way she could see his face. 

“If you do,” he said. She nodded and pulled away from him, and shimmied her pants down her legs, cursing that she’d left her boots on. Gendry chuckled and pulled her face back to his and a moment later she wasn’t the one on top anymore.

“My boots,” she said to him, but he was spreading her legs, pulling them wide and then he was between them, sliding his legs beneath the pants that were down about her shins. He kissed her neck, kissed her forehead, kissed her nose, and cheeks and lips and she felt his fingers between her legs, rubbing, finding her opening and then—

“You’re sure?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said and she kissed him again and felt it, felt _him_ pushing into her. 

And it hurt. It stung.  She stretched around him, but it didn’t feel good—not exactly. _Too soon_ , she thought sadly, remembering what Merry had once told her—that if a man’s in you before you’re ready it will hurt.  That it shouldn’t hurt if you’re ready for him, even if you’ve never fucked anyone before. 

He had gone very still and was breathing hard, and he kissed her again, kissed her so hard that it almost took her breath away, almost made her forget the stinging between her legs. Almost. 

And then he began to move, sliding in and out of her, and she felt her cheeks twitch in a wince for a few seconds before slowly, slowly, the pain began to fade. Fade, but not dissipate, not entirely. It faded, but it felt better—especially when she moved, when she wasn’t just lying there under him but was rocking her hips up to meet him.  She felt slicker when she did that, and the slickness helped, and when she tilted her hips sometimes his cock hit a nice spot inside of her that would have made her gasp if there weren’t still that odd sensation of stretching. 

It was stranger than anyone had let on—having a cock inside her.

And, much sooner than she’d expected, it was gone, and Gendry was gasping and spilling his seed across her belly, and the strange sting of it all felt that much more pointed now that she was empty again.  He collapsed on top of her, kissing her neck and Arya wrapped her arms around his neck and held him to her, as tightly as she could.

* * *

Gendry attributed it to his near death.  He thought that that was a better thing to attribute it to—better certainly than that Arya had let him fuck her.  But the road was more bearable than it had been before.  Though his stomach ached, and his limbs were weary, and he was so bloody cold all the bloody time, it was impossible not to be…happy.  He was happy.  It was dark more than it was light, and he’d lost his sword to a frozen river, and it was a good day when they found acorns to mash, though they were frozen solid and tasted bitter in his mouth. But he was happy.

He was happy, and never happier than when he crawled beneath the furs and wrapped his arms around Arya, and kissed her, and she kissed him.  Never happier.  _She doesn’t think you’re expendable_ , he thought happily. _She needs you_.  He could laugh whenever he thought about it, though when they rode their horses he certainly did not feel like laughing. 

Days bled into one another, and three months travel stretched into four.  Four months of watching the moon wax and wane overhead as he rode next to Arya, or drifted to sleep in her arms.  But for all that the moon had waxed and waned four times, Arya’s moon blood had only come that one time south of where the Wall had stood. At first, he’d been petrified that somehow, though he was careful to spill his seed on her belly, that she’d gotten his child in her.  He could think of nothing worse—nothing worse at all.  But Arya did not seem to fear this, and when he got up the courage to ask her, she rolled her eyes and said, “It’s because we’re starving, stupid.” And he had felt stupid.  He’d felt the fool, being worried about nothing.  Not that it was truly nothing.  It would be a disaster, if she’d become pregnant.  It could well kill her, with nothing to eat, and even if they did survive, he wouldn’t want any child of his to be a bastard.  Even a noble bastard. 

 _Would any child of his be a noble?_ A knight’s child wasn’t a full on lord, after all. But better off, nonetheless. Not, of course, that he was like to have children.  He couldn’t fathom it at all, marrying some girl and giving her sons.  He couldn’t imagine anyone but Arya in his arms, and he knew better than to hope that anything would come of their rutting in the woods. He’d never let himself dream of things like that.  He’d stopped letting himself when his dreams kept getting dashed.

It was odd, though. It was the first time he’d thought of what life might await him after all this.  What would he do?  Where would he go?  Who would he be? He didn’t know the answers to those questions, just knew what he’d known before: whatever it was, it wouldn’t be far from Arya.

But it was easy to put those thoughts of future, of knightly children, of the unknown future that awaited him from his mind when he was between their furs, when her hands cupped his chin, when her legs wrapped around his hips, and when she was wet, so wet around his cock.   Every passing night, it seemed, they were there, rolling together, moaning together, his hands on her breasts, gripping her hips, woven through her hair that he’d tugged loose from its braid.  Though he knew that neither of them had the energy to spare, neither of them seemed to care when they were connected, Arya on top of him, her fingers at the top of her slit and weaving through the coarse hair at the base of his cock, or him on top of her, her hips canted beneath him, her ankles resting on his shoulder, her cheeks flushing, her lips parted as he drove into her again, and again, and again.

It was good distraction—good distraction from the cold, good distraction from how much thinner, and thinner, and thinner they were both growing, good distraction from the fact that sometimes, when Arya called to Jon, he only responded when she called him Ghost.

They should not have had the energy to fuck at night, but they did.  They gave each other energy, gave each other life, and this— _this_ was what Gendry wanted. Just the two of them.

Just the two of them.

* * *

She ran with her brother. She ran with him, and he was her brother, more and more every day.  Hungry and silent, and less angry, less complicated.

Men were complicated.

Wolves were simple, and her brother was more and more a wolf, less and less a man.

She knew her girl dreaded the day when her brother was no longer awake in Ghost’s body. She knew that that was why her girl had taken to distracting herself with her mate at night, gasping for air and making contented little moans.  When she was with her mate, she did not think about how she was losing her brother.

It was odd. It was hard too. Odd for she and her girl had never before wanted anything different.  But her girl wanted her brother to stay, and Nymeria…Nymeria wanted her brother back.

* * *

Jon was gone.  He was gone from Ghost’s eyes, gone from the world.

Dead at last, dead forever.

And Arya…she stared into Ghost’s red eyes. Red, like her mother’s blood. Both gone.  Both she couldn’t save.  Both gone and leaving her feeling nothing.  Nothing at all.

She turned back to Gendry and buried her face in his chest and scrunched up her eyes.  But no tears welled there.  Her grief was too deep for tears, too deep for anything.  She just stood there, breathing.  How she breathed.  How she still lived, when they did not.  Her triumphs did not feel like triumphs when they were gone.  All of them—Jon, her father, her mother, Robb…even Lommy Greenhands and the girl Weasel who’d disappeared into the woods. _What was the point_ , she wondered.  _No matter how hard you try, everyone just ends up dead_. And she couldn’t think of anything that would make that emptiness go away.  Not even Winterfell.

Not even Gendry.

 _Bran,_ she thought wildly. _Maybe Bran will…_ would what?  Make the pain go away?  Undo all the loss? Make her life feel as though it weren’t a series of failures that she tried so hard to prevent?

 _It will be well,_ she told herself.  _It will ease with time._ Even the pain of her mother’s death had eased with time.  And when the pain eased…what would there be then?  What life awaited her in truth?  What would she be?  What did she even want to be?


	9. Bran

He is wolf. He is wolf, and she is all of his pack that he has left. She is thin—too thin, and she smells of death. He whines.

The rest of his pack is all but gone now. The tall one, the giant, who always stood taller than he had was gone, and the skinny boy, pale and ill and hunched. Only him, and the girl with the dark braid that had once been thick but now hung lank as she had grown thinner and paler and hungrier.

She fishes. Every day, wrapping a cord around her waist and fastening it to a tree and going out onto the ice, carving holes into it, jabbing at it with her forked spear until it cracked and she could send a line through it. She spent the sunlight out on the frozen water, praying that today, a fish, today, something, something to fill her belly.

He did not stay with her when she fished.

He went out far, following his nose, following the scents that grew fainter every day—a fallen bird, frozen, or—if he was lucky—a fallen mammoth or bear on whose flesh he could feast. It had been years since he had truly hunted. It had been years since he’d truly been pack.

Once he had been prince of the green, and smaller wolves had bowed to him when he found them feeding. There had come a time when they had been so hungry that they had fought him though, and he had won, for he was bigger, and stronger, and the scent of their blood in the air, their blood in the snow, their blood which should be his blood, except not his blood. He had had brothers and sisters, five beside him. Five—Jon who had fallen, and Robb as well. Rickon and Sansa, back in Winterfell, who came to the tree every day and whose faces bled together with his father’s, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father, all the way back, long before the Starks had been Lords of Winterfell.

What was it that Sansa asked him? She asked him not as his aunt had asked a god, but as he had asked his other sister, pleading, begging, _please help me_.

 _I want to help you, sister_ , he would think. Yes—this one was his sister. She looked like his mother, like him, like pack, and her eyes were desperate, her face gaunt from hunger, her hair lacked luster, and hung loose where she’d used to wear it in elaborate braids, elaborate braids that looked like another’s braids, the braids of another Lady Stark, an older woman, with dark hair and a long face, well fleshed, well fed, furs wrapped around her neck. “You didn’t save my son,” said this other Lady Stark—which was she? Arrana? Alyssa? Or another?

They all bled together. Bled together, like the days and years he had spent in the dark. Bled together, like men in the snow, savaged and slain by blades made of ice, only to rise again with bright blue eyes, eyes like death.

He’d seen dead blue eyes before. He’d seen them at Raventree Hall, when his mother had hung Geremy Frey from his branches, before the wolves had descended. He had tried to call to her, to tell her he was still alive, that her pain need not be so great, but she did not hear him, or did not wish to, and when she’d turned away from the tree, her misery was greater, for what childless mother wishes to hear the call of the gods reminding her of what she had once been?

The snows were melting at Raventree Hall, and the riverlords were already setting men to work, planting and praying for no more snow.

No more snow.

No more Jon.

He has seen that, too. Gone and never coming back. He had faded into the wolf that held his ghost, and he saw the misery in Arya’s face as she continued pushing her way north. They were nearly there—nearly there, her and Gendry, her friend. Bran watched her, hoping, praying—praying to whom? He did not know. Who did a god pray too? To what gods did greenseers pray? Could he pray to himself? He did all he could already. He spread as far as he could, and when he finds elk or birds, or anything at all that his sister might eat, he guided it towards her. Nearly enough, perhaps.

 _Lord Brynden did not do this for you when you came north,_ he thought.

 _I sent you Coldhands_.

 _Coldhands, and the flesh of men_. He was no naïve little boy. He knew what it was that he’d eaten. It made his skin crawl.

 _Summer wouldn’t have minded_. Summer would happily eat the flesh of man—man who was not his pack. He had feasted on the flesh of the tall one before the boy had come into his skin and driven him back, grief and misery filling his every bone. _You do not eat your pack_ , the boy had sobbed. _He is our pack. Is our—was our—is our pack._

It was what kept him from eating the girl. She was thin, and would not fill him, but he did not hunt her because she was pack, she was pack, she was Meera Reed of Greywater Watch. She refused to leave her king, her god, and when he commanded she go, she did not go far and she did not weep when she left. “ _I’ll not leave you behind_ ,” she had promised him.

“ _You must. Meera you’re starving. You will die._ ”

“ _I will not abandon you here, Bran. Not alone in the dark without anyone else._ ” Once he’d dreaded being left alone in the dark when everyone else had gone. He’d bitten back tears of it, thinking that that was the only fate left him—a broken boy, dispensable, only as useful as the magical powers that allowed him to connect the forces of men to face their frozen assailants. But he would not watch Meera die.

“ _If you stay, you will die, Meera. I know this._ ”

“ _I will not—”_

“ _You_ will _. I know, Meera. I_ know _. Please you must not make me watch you die.”_ He had nearly cried, and she had nearly cried, but neither of them had shed a tear—at least not before the other. And Meera had not cried when she had gone out into the dark, into the winter. She knew that to cry was to have her tears freeze to her face.

“ _I will go, Your Grace_ ,” she had said before she had disappeared. “ _But I will not go far. I will be back when winter is over._ ”

_Go farther, Meera. Go farther, and survive._

So long as Summer was with her, she would not freeze. So long as Summer was with her…she had taken Summer from him and with Summer gone…

 _It will overwhelm you_ , Lord Brynden had said. _It will overwhelm you. You will be awash with memories that are not your own. And you will learn to command them, Bran._ He hadn’t learned, though. He hadn’t had the time to. The Long Night had come too soon, and what secrets of the past he knew had come to him because Lord Brynden had _shown_ him, not because he had discovered them in the memories of the trees. And now Lord Brynden had faded into the trees, and his voice mixed in Bran’s head—more than the others, but sometimes hidden behind the other voices—Brandon the Bright, and Brandon the Brave, and Brandon the Bold, and where they all named Brandon? Every single one of them? Why were they all named Brandon? Why couldn’t it have been Robb who had been named for his burned uncle? Then Robb would still be alive, and Robb would be here, and Bran would be broken, perhaps, but not alone in the dark and praying that his sister would not die before she came to him.

She had not died yet. Her horse had died beneath her, the thin garron named Thistle. Thistle’s heart had failed her, and they had eaten her muscle and sinew and cracked her bones for marrow before leaving the carcass behind in the snow. They had gone to bed with full bellies, her and Gendry, full bellies and warm hearts as they took one another that night, as they took one another so often. _Not wrestling_ , Bran thought. _And not golden haired._

_Not that._

He watched himself fall, watched himself thrown from a window by a hand that no longer lived, watched him fall and fall and fall and not fly. Never fly. He watched himself fall, but Bran never fell. He didn’t fall. He never fell. He was thrown. He’d been thrown and it had broken his back, a hard crack in his spine as his head knocked against the ground and Summer howling and pawing at him until Maester Luwin found him. He watched himself carried, in arms, in baskets, but he never walked again. He would never walk again. But he would fly.

He had not eaten in so long. His broken body needed no more food. The tree kept him alive, and slowly, slowly his stomach would shrivel inside him—very soon, too soon, if Arya didn’t come. She was close. Close and tired and thin and aching.

 _She will not recognize me_ , Bran thought sadly. _I am much grown._ He recognized her. Her long face. Sansa and Jeyne Poole had once called her Arya Horseface and she’d almost cried and called Bran stupid when he’d wrapped his arms around her and told her that she wasn’t horsey looking at all. Neither Sansa nor Jeyne called her that now. Jeyne didn’t call anyone anything. She kept to herself, wrapping wool and fur around her when she could. And Sansa—

“What do I do?” she asked him. “Bran, they starve. No one trades their food. They talk of raiding south, but there is no food in the south. When will spring come?”

“I wish you were here, Bran. I would tell you everything. But I can’t even put words to it now—if I do, then I will hope, and if my hope is dashed again…”

He saw the hope in her eyes, before she came to the tree, hope left in the smile of the blonde Dornishman, the one who sometimes sat beneath the tree and looked at him, long and hard, and looked so like he wanted to ask—wanted to say words, but wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.

“You can say anything you would like to the gods,” Sansa had told him, and he had looked at the tree with eyes nearly purple, nearly blue.

“I would not dare confess before your king.”

“Before my brother,” Sansa had replied. “Until my marriage has been annulled, my king is your king.”

Tyrion Lannister’s mismatched eyes stared into the tree. “My father would have drowned me at birth. He did all he could to keep me away from my legacy. And my legacy will be greater than ever his was.” _I know_ , Bran had whispered, or had he whispered? Had it been him? Or had it been the trees, the gods, the real gods, the greenseers who were past, present and future.

_I don’t want to be past present and future._

He wanted to be in Winterfell. He wanted to sit with Sansa, and hear her heart, he wanted to ride with Arya in a new saddle of Tyrion’s design on a gentle horse, he wanted to sink into Summer and run with Rickon and hear his brother’s breathless laughter once again.

But he was there, alone, in the dark, and waiting to fade, for as Jon had gone into the wolf, he would go into the tree. What was the point in delaying? He had helped them, the kingdoms were alive, and the next greenseer would not need to save the world as he had. He could just go to sleep, could just go to sleep and fade into nothingness until his name was forgotten like Bran the Bold and Brandon the Brave and Brynden Rivers.

He could. But when he closed his eyes, he went to Summer, curled around Meera, shivering in the dark, her belly empty after having eaten three days before, and smelling so sweet in his nose. _Meera_ , he whispered. He would not watch her die. She could not die. But he couldn’t look away. His last friend, faithful friend, always, from the beginning. Meera Reed, Meera swore by ice and fire, bronze and iron, bronze and iron for war, ice and fire for destiny and Jojen had sworn by water and earth. Jojen had sworn too, but Jojen was gone now, and Hodor as well. Both dead, both too soon.

 _Not your fault_.

 _Your fault_.

 _When my body dies, perhaps I will go like Jon into the wolf, not into the trees._ He could run at least, if he was Summer. He’d be even more stagnant if he became one with the weirwood. He could be with Meera, then. Be with her always. Keep her warm in the cold, hunt for her, sleep with her. She would never leave Summer, and Summer would never leave her. He hadn’t wanted to leave Bran, but he had wanted to run.

 _This cave is no place for a wolf,_ Bran thought.

_You are not a wolf. You are a broken boy._

Broken, yes, but he was nearly a man grown now. A man grown and king. King at four-and-ten, like Robb, and far from his kingdom, like Robb. But was he Bran the Boy or Bran the Lord? Could he Bran the Boy or Bran the Lord if he was Bran the God?

 _If I could, I would just walk away_ , he thought. That was what Bran the Builder had done. He had not wanted to be a god and he had left, and he had hewn the Wall and built Winterfell. _All I did was break the neck. Bran the Breaker._

“Had you not broken the Neck, we would have had to bend the knee,” Sansa whispered to the tree, low, quick, hushed. “This is truly your kingdom, Bran. You made it. I am holding it as best I can. I hope Arya finds you soon.”

There it was that glimmer of hopeless hope in her eyes, that daring not to dream, because when she dreamed they were dashed.

Bran knew of dashed dreams.

_You won’t walk again, but you will fly._

She was so close now. His sister, his playmate, who had built snow forts with him and giggled and climbed and run about. He had shown her all his secret places, the corners of Winterfell that only he knew, and she had never once told father and mother that he climbed the weirwood tree in the godswood. She was so close now. So close, he could almost taste her in the wind, if trees could taste, if birds could smell. She was so close and when she was here—

He opened his eyes.

He was in the dark.

He was in the dark, and he was alone, and when Arya came, he would sleep for so long, and while she brought him south, how long would it take him to understand all he knew, to remember all he had forgotten and forget all he remembered?

 _I did not ask to know all this_ , he thought sadly. Names and faces of thousands of Starks, of Boltons and Glovers, and Mormonts, and Umbers, and Karhold Starks who had lived here for thousands of years. He did not want to know them all, but he did, and even if he tried to forget he would not be able. But would he be able to own these memories? They weren’t his.

He closed his eyes again. He closed his eyes and sank into Summer, into that portion of minds that was Bran and Bran alone.

The next time he opened them, Arya would be here.


	10. Arya; Gendry

She could smell wolf. Faintly, it was true, but wolf nonetheless.  A familiar wolf. Pack.  She looked at her pale brother.  He smelled him too.  The grey one, the first found.  His scent would take them towards the rising sun.  _No.  Bran said due North.  Bran said tomorrow, if no trouble._  

She and her brother struck east towards the rising sun.  If pack was there, then there might also be food.  And if there was no food, then they should not leave him alone out there.  The lone wolf dies.

* * *

Arya woke to Gendry hard against her thigh, his seed dried and cracking on her stomach, his gentle snoring in her ears and she kept her eyes closed for just a moment, relishing the warmth of him, the peace of mind their nights always brought her, which managed somehow to wash away her own grief for a time.  They had finished the last of Thistle’s meat the night before, and Arya felt—not starving, but hungry.  Her stomach ached, but it did not pain her too badly. 

She wriggled, finding her breeches and tugging them up her legs.  Gendry mumbled in his sleep and his arms wrapped more tightly around her.

“Come on,” she whispered. “We have to get going.”

 _Bran_ , she thought.  Today, if he was right, and how couldn’t he be right?  He knew everything. 

 _Due north,_ the trees had whispered to her last night. _Follow the bright star._

Nymeria and…and Ghost—she winced and closed her eyes.  _Not Jon.  Not anymore_.   But she was almost used to the strange emptiness she felt when she thought about it now, though used to it didn’t mean she liked it.  She would never like it, the way her mind paused to caress memories of Jon’s smile before the pain set in and she forced herself away from that corner of her memories.  She was getting good at forcing herself to think on other things.

Nymeria and Ghost were nowhere to be found.  Arya saw their tracks in the snow when she poked her head out from the furs. Gendry made a whimpering noise.

“Wake up,” she whispered, poking his stomach gently.

“It’s cold,” he muttered, and she smiled.

“Of course it’s cold, stupid.” She was almost surprised at how gentle her voice sounded today, and Gendry opened a bleary eye to look at her. “It’s the middle of winter.” The middle of winter, with only a few bare hours of light each day.  She wriggled out of his grip and slid out from between the furs, tugging her cloak as tightly around her as she could.  She went round a tree and squatted, sighing slightly as she relieved herself, then came back to Anvil.

He was thin—too thin. _He’s going to die as well_ , she thought sadly. It was probably a miracle he hadn’t died already.  Thistle had been gone two weeks now, and she and Gendry took turns riding Anvil. _Bran will have to ride him when we get him,_ she thought. She would miss the breaks in wading through the snow _._

As hungry as she was, and as cold, none of that mattered.  Only Bran mattered, and she was going to see him again.  The last time she’d seen him, he’d been asleep, unconscious after his fall, so small on his bed, wrapped in furs to keep him warm against the chilly nights of the late summer snows.  He’d be bigger now.  _Four and ten_ , she reminded herself.  Twice the age he’d been when last they’d played together. Would he be taller? As tall as her? He would never stand, of course, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be bigger.  She’d ended up a small thing, herself.  Sansa was ever tall and graceful, but Arya had seemed to stop growing far sooner than she would have liked.  And she would always be smaller than Gendry.  He was tall.  He always had been. Tall and strong. And it was never quite so obvious as when he was inside her, when his body curled away from hers so he could kiss her and be inside her all at once, or when his chest hovered over her lips, and she drank in the scent of him while he thrust and thrust…

She grinned to herself. It had stung that first time, it had been oddly stretched, but ever since then… _Septa Mordane would screech if she knew how much I enjoyed it_ , Arya thought, with some sort of spiteful joy.  Gendry understood her better than Septa Mordane ever had, and, if his groans and gasps were anything to judge by, he was much more pleased with her handiwork.

Gendry was climbing out of the furs when she came back from around the tree, looking a bit grumpy and shivering as he rolled up the furs.  He looked around, as if hoping against hope there would be something to eat, before sighing, shrugging, and going for a morning piss while Arya went and rubbed Anvil’s nose.

“Only one more day, then a bit of rest,” she told him.  She wondered if he understood.  She could smell his agitation at night, through Nymeria’s nose.  His fear, his loneliness, his exhaustion. Maybe they wouldn’t have time to rest. Maybe they’d just turn around and head south. That might be the best idea—the further south they went, the more likely it would be that they would find food, wouldn’t they? Arya didn’t like to think about it. They’d been on the road for closer to half a year than to a month by now.  It felt like it could have been ten years. 

 _I’ve lived more than a lifetime, and I’m not yet…_ Arya froze.

She hadn’t thought of it at all, not while days bled into one another.  Her name day had passed somewhere in the snow. She was seventeen now. _Seventeen._ It was such a small number. She felt like she could be sixty at least, with everything that had happened.  _If I’m seventeen, but feel older, how old will Bran feel?_ The thought made her sad.  _We’re all so young._

In a world where none of this had happened, where her father and mother still lived, and Robb, and Jon, mayhaps she’d…she’d what?  Would her father have let her studies with Syrio Forel amount to anything? Or were they simply to keep her out of trouble while she’d been in King’s Landing, to keep her from fighting with Sansa.  _Well, Sansa was stupid in King’s Landing_ , she thought bitterly.  _She still liked Joffrey then_.  _And didn’t care about Mycah._

Arya frowned. Surely Sansa would have come round, though.  Surely she would have seen what sort of a monster Joffrey was, even without their father’s death. Sansa wasn’t stupid, she just refused to see things sometimes.  And it wasn’t like she _still_ did that. She’d believed Arya that second time at the Trident, after all.

Arya shook the thought from her mind.  _If father and mother were alive, though, I’d probably be betrothed to some stupid lordling._ Her father had told her she would marry, once.  She’d wanted to be the hand of the king, and he’d told her she’d marry one. _If Gendry had been trueborn…_

If Gendry had been trueborn, he wouldn’t be Gendry, though.  Of that, she was sure.  He’d be someone altogether different.  And she was sure she would still like him, but…but he wouldn’t be her Gendry, the one who rolled his eyes at her, and called her stupid, even when she wasn’t stupid, the one who grinned and laughed with her, the one who had refused to leave her side, who had insisted on coming north with her to rescue Bran, her _pack_. 

 _He’d be a stag.  Stags don’t know what packs are._  

She felt his hands on her hips, his lips at her neck and she closed her eyes for just a moment, smiling at the touch of him.  Then she let him help her up onto Anvil, and waited for him to strap their things to his back before they set out, Arya looking at the bright star that Bran had shown her to guide her.

She felt like she was back in the riverlands, with only the stars overhead to guide her through the woods.  She felt like she was back at Winterfell, when the storms hadn’t raged and there was some sort of hope because you could see the stars, and the moon.  They’d known what day it was because of the turning moon. She looked at the moon now, hanging low in the sky.  She wondered what day it was.

They went in silence, Gendry at her side.  Sometimes, he would reach a gloved hand up and rest it on her thigh while he walked, and she would look down at him and smile.  He didn’t smile back.  His eyes were distant, wary, and darting here and there. 

“I’m sure it will be all right,” she said gently.  They hadn’t come upon anything since they’d come north.  No wights, no Others, no anything.  _That ill is gone from the world_ , Arya thought.  _Though at what cost._

Gendry only shrugged.

She saw it in the distance, far off, but there—actual leaves on trees, high up on a hill. Her heart quickened.

“Do you see it?” she said, her voice seeming to echo through the trees.

Gendry’s gaze followed her own, and he jerked a nod.  “We’ve _made_ it,” she sighed happily. She wanted to kick her heels into Anvil’s sides and send him off faster.  But the poor beast was tired…

She wished she had Nymeria’s speed, she would leap from his back and run.  But instead, she reached her hand down and patted Anvil’s neck. “So soon,” she murmured to the horse. “So soon, and when it’s done, you’ll have earned such a rest.”

The horse didn’t respond. He just kept walking, and Arya prayed that the cave would have something—anything for him to eat. Roots, or moss, or _something_.  _He’s a good winter garron, but this must be hell for him._

It was hell for her too.

She thought of Jon again, gone to the wolf, and closed her eyes for just a moment. She could go to Nymeria’s skin, and hope, but she knew that would not matter.   _Don’t do it to yourself. Not again._

So she focused on Bran, and the tree she saw in the distance, its white bark reflected in the moonlight, in the snow, and all she could think the whole time was Bran’s name, over and over and over again.

When they did at last reach the base of the hill, Anvil did not wish to climb.  He stood stubbornly at the start of the incline and shook his head, and Arya dismounted, looking between him and Gendry.

“Go on,” Gendry said. “I’ll take care of him. He’s probably just tired.”

Arya looked between the two of them, Anvil’s hooded eyes, Gendry’s own tired ones, and she nodded slowly, then faster. 

She began to climb, and within twenty feet of wading through the snow, her legs were screaming at her, but she couldn’t listen to them, not now.  Not when she was so close.

 _Getting to Winterfell took me everywhere but Winterfell,_ she thought, _but getting to Bran is easy.  Getting to Bran is easy. Getting to Bran is easy. Getting to Bran…_

It wan’t easy. Not at all.  She bit her lip to keep her legs going, as the hill grew steeper and steeper, and the snow grew thicker and thicker.   It was littered with limbs as well, the frozen corpses that had once been wights, waiting at the entrance but unable to enter somehow.  She hated that thought—Bran trapped in the dark by the dead.  _But not for long._ Her blood pumped hot and strong through her body, and by the time she reached the opening of the cave, she was sweating slightly. 

She shook the snow from her clothes, not wanting it to melt and freeze to her, before she went into the darkness.  Black pressed against her eyes, and not for the first time in her life, she wished she were Nymeria for true.  _Nymeria would be able to see through this_ , she told herself. Nymeria could see through anything. It was pitch black, and Arya felt the edge of the cave’s walls, her feet moving carefully along the ground until she felt what were unmistakably roots. 

She paused, nudging her toe along them.  She would have to be careful.  Careful, or else she would fall. 

“He’s waiting for you, Arya Stark,” came a voice that was not human.  She twisted and looked and out of the darkness came a creature, half her height with brown eyes and skin like a doe’s.  “Come with me.”

She followed the child of the forest through the darkness until she saw the outline of a person at the base of the tree.

“Bran,” she called, excitement filling her.  “Bran!”

But Bran did not move. He did not open his eyes. He sat there, his face pale, and thin, his hair long and shaggy, curling and waving the way that Sansa’s and Rickon’s did, and there was a dusting of hair on his chin as well. Arya reached for his hands, and called to him again. This time, he opened his eyes.  

His blue eyes were clouded, and she saw his pupils contract slightly, and then detract, as though they couldn’t hold a focus.  His lips spread into a tired smile, and they cracked and bled.  “I knew you’d come,” he said.  His voice was hoarse, dry, as though he had not used it in years. “I knew…”

Arya wrapped her arms around her brother, and felt him trembling in her arms. 

“You’re so warm,” he rasped.

“So are you,” she lied. He was cold—very cold. And skeletally thin, thinner even than she was.

“Can you carry me to the base of the tree?  It will be safer there.”

“Safer?”

“They grab at me. The roots.  They’re holding me here.  They don’t want me to go.”

He sounded frightened—more frightened than she had ever heard him, even when he’d been little. Bran had never been frightened of anything, not of falling, not of foul tempers, not of anything, but he sounded terrified.

“Well, let’s get you out then.”  Arya shifted from her knees to her feet, crouched down next to Bran and reached underneath him to grab him at his hips and lift him.  He would not move.

He was so thin, and Arya was thin too, but she was not weak—not so weak as this, at least. She ran her fingers along his legs lifting each leg in turn, then reached behind Bran to his lower back and gasped. The tree had grown into his skin, right at the base of his spine.

“Bran?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He shuddered. “No.”  His voice was thick with tears.  “No.  No no. _No_. I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want—I don’t….” He looked as though he should be crying, his bleeding lips spread over his teeth, his eyes bloodshot. _He looks like the faces of the Old Gods_ , Arya thought, horror rising like bile in her chest.  _Did they none of them wish to stay either?_

“It will be all right,” she said, and she unsheathed Needle.  “I’ll cut you loose.  I’ll cut you loose.”

Needle was no saw, though. Needle’s edge was sharp, but smooth. It would take hours to cut him loose, but Arya didn’t care. 

“Hold very, very still,” she said to him.

“Arya,” he began.

“Hold _still_ ,” she said, hating how shrill her voice was getting, how her heart was thudding loudly in her chest.  She had _not_ come all this way just to watch Bran…to leave him to be…she _refused_. She would not just _leave_ him to this as Father, and Mother, and Jon…she would _not_ let Bran fall.

The word cut her like a knife.  _This isn’t falling_ , she thought.  Bran had fallen when he was seven, Father’s head had fallen from his neck, Jon had fallen in war, mother had fallen when they’d cut her loose from her noose, blood still dripping from her belly where Arya had stuck her with Needle, but this…this wasn’t falling.  This was fading.  Fading, as Jon had faded into Ghost, into _nothingness_.   _I will not let Bran fade_. 

Bran held his breath, holding still.  He leaned forward and rested his head on her shoulder while she worked Needle back and forth against the root that had begun to stuck itself through Bran’s flesh.

“You must not take it out,” came that unearthly voice.  “It must remain in him.”

“It will kill him,” Arya hissed, not looking away.

“The tree will give him life,” said the voice.

“What sort of life is this?” Arya responded fiercely.  “What is life if you cannot live it?”  


Her words rang through the cave, echoing off the walls and she heard them repeated back into her ears again _._ She felt her skin rise in goose prickles.  


She felt Bran shaking against her, as if he were crying. She felt a hand that was too small to be Bran’s reach out and touch her shoulder.

“You misunderstand,” the child said, and Arya paused, finally twisting around to look at her face. “You must not remove the root. It has lodged. It will keep him from dying when there is no food.  Remove it and the wound will fester.  He is weak and will die. He must not die. He knows too much to be lost.”

Arya looked at the dappled face, with her wide brown eyes.  A smooth face, a neutral face.  But was it a liar’s face?  Arya remembered a waif of a woman, whose face was always unreadable.  _She is not human_ , Arya said. _She may lie differently._

But what did she stand to benefit from lying?  She seemed to want Bran to live, and seemed to see that Arya and Bran were both determined that he leave this place.  Arya turned away, and kept sliding Needle back and forth through the root. It looked like a bone, and Needle was covered in its sticky red blood.  Needle had been covered in blood before.  Arya shuddered. _Is there gold in the village?_

How long she hacked away at the weirwood root, Arya did not know.  Bran’s breathing was steady, his arms limp at his side, and for a moment, she thought he had gone to sleep.  But the moment that she cut through the root, he stiffened and she felt his face wince against her neck, and he exhaled a quiet, “Oh.”

“Ready?” she asked him. He nodded, and she pulled him, and this time, he moved, just far enough away from the base of the tree that she could almost see an imprint of him against it.  She lifted his arms, still limp, and rested them around her shoulders. Then she heaved them both up, and, shaking from the sudden weight of him in her arms, carefully made her way down until they were as far away from the tree as she could make them before her tired arms gave way.  She settled Bran on the ground, and then sat down next to him, holding him closely to her, holding him as tightly as she could, running her hands through his hair, and feeling him gasp for air next to her.

That was how Gendry found them, a boy who looked like an older, thinner, sicklier version of Rickon Stark, in Arya’s arms.  They were neither of them speaking, just sitting there, leaning against one another, arms holding one another tightly.

The relief on Arya’s face was palpable.  Gendry had not seen her look like that in so long—if ever.

 _You should be happy about that_ , he thought bitterly at himself.  _She’s saved her brother’s life, and you helped her do it. What sort of fool are you to be annoyed?_

But he was. He was, damn him. He stared at Arya, and at Bran. _This is her pack_ , he thought.  _Not me.  I’m just some bloody upjumped bastard.  So what if I’m King Robert’s?  I’m no bloody stag.  And even if I were, what do wolves do to stags?_

“Is there anything to eat around here?” Gendry asked.  His voice echoed loudly off the walls of the cave, startling even himself. Arya’s eyes snapped open, and Bran’s drifted open.  _They don’t look the same at all_ , he thought. _Not the way Jon and Arya did._   Arya smiled at him.

“You got up! Is Anvil all right?”

“Happy to be warm,” Gendry said.  It wasn’t untrue. Anvil, once Gendry had guided him up the hill—a hill that had been littered with the remains of wights, no wonder the poor horse hadn’t wanted to climb—had seemed pleasantly surprised that the cave was as warm as it was.  The horse had been even more thrilled to find moss growing in the darkness beneath the tree, and had begun eating it almost frantically. 

“There’s not much food,” Bran responded.  His voice was tired, and Gendry reached for his hip for the skin he’d filled with snow that morning.  It was already melting into water.  He crossed to the two of them, and handed it to Bran.  Bran raised his arms and they shook, his face etched with sudden frustration and then horror as they couldn’t reach the proffered skin. 

“What’s wrong with me?” he sounded panicked.  “No—no my legs, not my arms!  My arms are all right!”

“Shh, shh,” Arya said gently.  She took Gendry’s waterskin and brought it to Bran’s lips, tilting the water into his mouth. “Your muscles are wasted. They’ll come back. With food and use, they’ll grow back.”

Bran swallowed his water and sighed.  “They’ll grow back. I knew that.  They’ll grow back.”  He gave Gendry a timid smile.  “Thank you.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Gendry said.  If Bran noticed the title, he did not show it.  Arya on the other hand, raised her eyebrows at him.   He pretended not to care. 

“There might be bugs to eat,” Arya said slowly, turning to Bran, but he shook his head.

“Meera could no longer find worms when I sent her away.”  Meera. He’d heard that name before. Meera Reed, Bran’s friend. Arya had hardly talked about her, but he remembered Rickon telling.  Meera and her brother Jojen and the simpleminded stableboy Hodor had gone with Bran, while Osha had gone with him to Skagos.  He wondered what had become of the other two—though Bran’s omission of them told him enough.

“That doesn’t mean they haven’t come back,” Arya said, trying to sound hopeful, but Bran shook his head.

“Where did Meera go?” Gendry asked, trying to keep sharpness from his voice.

“She is at the coast, with Summer.  She was turning back, though.  I think she knew you were coming.  Four days from here, I’d guess.”

“We don’t have four days worth of food,” Arya said sadly, before pausing and shuddering.

“No,” Bran said slowly. “No.”  He closed his eyes and his scabbed lips frowned slightly. Then he opened them again. “There are some fish in the river beneath the cave.  Small, and not many. But there.  They were gone before.  But they’re back now.”

“River,” he said slowly. Then he stood, straightening. “Where is the river?”

Bran jerked his head in an odd motion.  “Round the tree, down the back.  It’s…” he swallowed and looked down.  “You’ll have to climb down. Be careful…careful not to fall.”

“I’ll be all right,” Gendry said.  He was sure he would be. For the first time in ages, he could feel his fingers—really feel them.  What did it matter if it was dark?

* * *

For three days, they stayed beneath the tree, and every night, Arya curled up around Bran, holding him close. Every day, Arya helped him eat—or tried to, anyway—helped him work on strengthening his arms, listened to him.

Gendry would sit with them, watching.  She would hand Bran Needle, and he would have to lift it a few inches, then let it drop, then lift it a few inches, then let it drop.  After five lifts, he was sweating and trembling, and his eyes weren’t focusing.

He was a strange boy, Gendry thought, though he supposed that was what being a cripple did to people. Or maybe not being a cripple, maybe it was being a god.  Sometimes he would stop mid-sentence and stare off into the distance, as though remembering something he’d forgotten, or forgetting something he’d remembered, and they would sit patiently and wait for him to shake his head, like a dog shaking off water, and keep speaking, but whenever he continued, he couldn’t remember where he had started.

“It’s…there’s so much,” he muttered once, looking at Arya with sad round eyes. “Sometimes it can’t all stay in place. And I—” his voice trailed away and his cracked lips trembled, and Arya would brush away a lock of his long auburn hair and make shushing noises. 

“It will get easier,” she said.  “I promise it will. I’m here.  I’ll help.”

“You can’t help,” Bran sighed.  “But you help by being here.”  He took her hand and leaned against her, closing his eyes. 

It was as if Gendry weren’t there at all.  Each day, he would climb down to the river and catch a few squirming fish to bring up to them. He would light a small fire, though the children of the forest despaired of it, and Arya would cook the fish and help Bran eat some small bites.  Bran could never have more than a few bites or else he would get sick.

“My stomach is unused to food,” he said.  He reached behind him and touched the weirwood root in his back with his gloved hand. Arya had tied it in place with a strip of fabric she’d torn from one of her shirts.

Gendry hadn’t noticed when Arya had given him the woolen gloves that Sansa had made for him—thick grey boiled wool.  They made his skin look even paler, somehow. 

The hardest part of it was that when they slept, Arya slept with Bran, wrapped around him, his head tucked under her chin, a peaceful smile on her face. 

 _Why shouldn’t she sleep with her brother?_ Gendry berated himself silently.  _It’s not like he’s had it easy, and it’s not like he hasn’t missed her.  Don’t be an idiot._

But that didn’t stop it hurting.  If anything, that made it worse.  _An idiotic, glum, bastard.  Jealous of her own damned brother._

He’d been jealous of Robb, he’d been jealous of Jon, and now he was jealous of Bran. What sort of lonely fool was jealous of someone’s family?  _It’s not like she loves them the same way as she likes me_ , he thought darkly.  But that didn’t help. Because he had no idea what that would be like, to have a brother or sister you loved so much you’d go thousands of miles north in the dead of winter just to save them.

He’d only do that for Arya. And Arya wasn’t his sister. He’d said she was once, to that old man at the Peach.  “ _Your sister, is she?  What kind of brother are you?  I’d never bring no sister of mine to the Peach, that I wouldn’t,_ ” the man had said. And she’d been all offended that he’d even dared call her his sister.

 _Or maybe it’s because you weren’t her brother, and she has brothers she loves,_ he thought.

He didn’t sleep at the same time as them.  He slept when they were awake, and spent the hours they were unconscious staring at Arya. _She never wanted you for a brother_ , he told himself. _Take heart in that_.

But he couldn’t. Because, fool that he was, it hurt him that she hadn’t.  _Friends and brothers aren’t the same_ , he said. _You ride a thousand miles for brothers through snow and ice. You don’t do that for friends_.

He’d have done it for Arya. He bloody well _did_ do it for Arya.  But maybe it wasn’t the same. 

No, it definitely wasn’t the same.  He’d done that for her, because he _loved_ her, bleeding hell, but not the way a brother loves a sister.  The way he’d loved her in the snow, when their hearts beat in time and their hips moved together and it was just the two of them and none of the rest of the world mattered.  What was that, then? What sort of love was that? _The love you give a woman_ , he heard in Thoros’ head. _The love you give a wife_.

It was always when he hit that point that he’d get to his feet and go to the river. The water always cleared his thoughts. It was cold, though not so cold as the water he’d fallen into, right before he and Arya had…And he could pretend, for just a moment, that it was just Arya waiting up above for him. Just Arya and not Bran, and it was just the two of them still—no little brothers, no big brother, no ladylike sister, no prissy Lord Dayne.  Just the two of them, the way that Gendry wanted.

“Need help?”

Her voice echoed off the stone and Gendry was so startled he almost fell into the river.

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his waist.  He’d been so focused in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard her follow him.

“I can do it,” he said. “What are you—”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she shrugged.  “And I have barely spoken to you since we got here.  I miss you.”

Gendry looked down at her. Was he imagining it, or were her eyes glowing in the darkness?  Was he imagining it, or was her face a little less thin, though as long and lovely as ever?

She stood on the tips of her toes and kissed him, and it wasn’t a light kiss—not at all. Her tongue slid between his lips and her hands held his hips against hers, fingers digging through the wool of his breeches.  He groaned into her mouth.

Of course she’d noticed that he was agitated, of course she had come to find him. She always seemed to know him, to understand him better than anyone else ever had, even when no one else seemed to, or even when she didn’t even seem to know that she was understanding him. She just did. She was better than a dream, sometimes.  Better than those dreams he’d had as a boy in King’s Landing, where he’d find some buxom blonde who’d hang on his every word and smile at him vapidly with too-red lips.

Arya wasn’t those boyhood fantasies—she was more than those boyhood fantasies ever could have been, and he walked her back so that she was pressed between him and the cave wall, and he could feel every part of her, the way her legs spread as she held him tightly and wrapped them around his hips, the way her breasts pressed into his chest—smaller than he’d ever thought about when it came to breasts, but what did that matter because they were _Arya’s_ —her hands on his shoulder blades, on his neck, toying with his hair.

He rocked into her sex, the heat of her passing through both of their clothes right into his cock and his groan mixed with the burbling water of the river. 

Her lips were everywhere—his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his neck, and he could hardly stand it, because she was here, now, with him, too solid in his arms to be a dream. She’d wanted to come down after him, to find him and hold him.  So he kissed her back, his tongue running along hers, his lips nipping at her neck, her earlobe, her anything that he could reach, until her hands came down between them. She fumbled at his laces and then took his cock firmly in her hand and he gasped.  Her hand was cold, suddenly, and it made him shudder as she pumped along his shaft.  He felt his breeches begin to slip down his legs, and the cool struck at his thighs, at his knees, much more pressing than he wanted it to be. 

They weren’t anywhere now, they were in a cave, by a river, and Arya’s hands were too cold, and all he wanted was to push into her, where it would be nothing but warm, nothing but Arya and damn the rest of the cave and everything else that was distracting him.

He pulled away from the cave wall, and a minute later she was kneeling down in front of him, and her lips engulfed him, and he forgot where he was again, because the warmth of her mouth on his cock, the way her tongue twirled around its tip, the way that the breath of her nose tickled the hair at his base was enough to distract him again. He wrapped his fingers through her hair and she sighed onto his cock, her lips and cheeks humming with delight and she peered up at him, her grey eyes shining through the darkness somehow, and though he didn’t want to, Gendry pulled out of her, the cold hitting him harder now that he was wet. 

He knelt down next to her and kissed her hard, kissed her with everything he could muster, his hands still in her hair, holding her close to him, and though her tongue moved with his, her hands were at her laces, untying them, and shimmying her pants off her hips.

She gasped.

“Cold?” he asked.

“Bleeding hells,” she muttered, and Gendry laughed.  He tugged his own breeches up so they covered his ass, then sat down fully on the ground, his cock still sticking straight out from where the laces lay undone. He pulled Arya on top of him and she was quick to sink onto him, and he let out a hiss as the warmth of her cunt washed over him, spread through him the way that only Arya ever could.

They sat still for a moment, her on top of him, him inside her, his head resting on her chest, breathing in the scent of her. 

It was Arya who began to move first.  First her chest, rubbing against his, then slowly her hips,rocking back and forth so that his cock slid in and out of her.  “Gods, I love this,” she murmured, her voice echoing.  _This not you_ , he thought and he hated himself for thinking it. 

“I love this,” she said again, “You inside me.  It feels like it’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“Arya,” he moaned, because it was all he could say.  _Let her finish_ , he thought. _It’s never as bad as you think it’s going to be.  Of course it’s not going to be.  It’s Arya, not someone else.  It’s Arya.  Arya._ “Arya.”

He slid his hands down between them and rubbed at her stiffened flesh, that spot that she’d shown him once and which made her whimper and gasp and made her cunt clench around him.

“I love your hands,” she said, her voice hitching as he circled.  “I love your arms, I love your chest, your lips, your eyes, your—ahh!” And she fell apart, trembling and gasping and moaning, her hips pushing harder against him, taking him in even deeper as she cried out. And as she sat there shaking, Gendry shifted them, pushing her onto her back, curling her legs up around his waist and thrust into her, his lips at her neck, his hands under her head now to keep it from knocking against the hard stone beneath them as she continued shaking and gasping, her cunt hot and wet and drawing him in, taking him deeper and deeper and deeper until he pulled out and his seed gushed out in hot spurts along her bared thigh and he buried his face in her neck.

 


	11. Arya; Gendry

Meera Reed arrived as the sun was setting on the fourth day after Arya and Gendry had reached the cave. Her hair was thin and had fallen out in chunks, and her face was skeletal, her eyes sunken into their sockets. She crossed the cave quickly, though, and began to cry as she sat down next to Bran and wrapped her arms around him.

“I know,” he whispered, and he hugged her back.  “I know.”

“No,” Meera said darkly. “You don’t, Bran.” Arya gave her a look, but Meera hardly seemed to notice.  “You made me leave you. I swore a solemn vow to serve and defend you, and you made me leave.”

Bran rested a hand on her arm and said, “You left me, but I didn’t leave you.”

“I know that,” Meera said. “I knew when you were with Summer. That doesn’t mean that you weren’t here, alone, in the dark.  It was unraveling your mind, Bran.  And you made me leave.  I couldn’t help you.”

“You did, though,” Bran whispered.  “You helped me, Meera. You did.”

Meera was shaking her head. “Always trying to make everyone feel better,” she sighed, “And not thinking about what that does to you.”

Bran let out a huff of annoyance.  “I do too think about what it does to me.”  For half a moment, Arya saw his eyes glaze over the way that Gendry’s did when he thought of Riverrun. _What are you remembering, Bran?_ she wanted to ask, but knew that if that question was posed to her, she wouldn’t even know how to begin to answer it.  Meera was talking again.

“Of course you do. But you take it too heavily when you do. Just sit there and let me be upset for a moment, Bran.  It’s out of relief, and I’ll be better soon.”  She squeezed his hand.  Bran flushed and looked down at their hands. 

Meera was looking around the cave now, and finally, her eyes landed on Arya.

“Princess. It gives me great pleasure to finally meet you,” Meera said, and Arya started, her eyes widening.

“I’m not—” Arya began, then stopped.  She was a princess, she supposed. She’d been one since she was nine when Robb was crowned. _I never was one, though,_ she thought.  The only princesses she knew of were all like Sansa—dignified and ladylike. No princess she knew had ever commanded a pack of a thousand wolves and fucked her best friend in the snow. _Well, someone had to_ , she thought, and let out a snort of amusement. “Lady Meera, the pleasure is mine. And I thank you for keeping my brother safe these past seven years.”  There. That sounded princessly.  

Meera gave her a smile. “I would never have let any ill befall my king.”  She squeezed Bran’s hand again, and Bran’s flush deepened.  Then a flash of worry crossed Meera’s face.  “You didn’t come here all on your own, did you?”

Arya shook her head. “Gendry came with me.”

“Gendry?” Meera peered around the cave, but Gendry was nowhere to be found.  _He’s probably fishing_ , Arya thought.

“Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill. He’s my dearest friend.” When had the word friend begun to feel so odd when describing Gendry?

“A good companion, then,” Meera said.

“The very best,” Arya said. It was true.  No one could have been a better companion. Not anyone in the world. She thought briefly of Ned Dayne and his offer to ride north with her.  It wouldn’t have been so bad with Ned, but Ned wasn’t Gendry. She wondered if she’d have ended up fucking him too.  He was pleasant to look at, that was true.  And she wasn’t so blind as to think he didn’t care deeply for her…but the image was wrong somehow.

She heard Bran make a noise in the back of his throat and shot him a glance.  There was something almost playful in his gaze, and Arya felt her eyes widen.  He bit back a smile, but didn’t say anything and cold realization flooded Arya.  _He knows. Gods be good, he knows. He sees everything. Of_ course _he knows_.

She raised her eyebrows at him, and he shrugged.

“Am I missing something?” Meera asked pointedly.

“Nothing,” Arya and Bran said at the same time, and for a moment she was eight again and she’d just hidden frogs in Sansa’s shoes and her mother had found her and Bran there giggling over it and asked them what they were doing. 

Meera looked completely unconvinced, but did not press the issue.  She simply leaned back against the wall of the cave and took a deep breath. “It’s good to be warm again,” she murmured. “If only for a little while.”

“It won’t be so bad going south,” Bran said.  “The days are getting longer.  The snows are melting. Spring is coming.”

“Well, we still have a thousand miles to go,” Meera said.  “And the snows are thick.  There’s no game, Bran.”

“I can try and bring us game,” he said.

“From how far? By the time it reaches us we’ll be gone.”

Bran frowned. “I know,” he sighed. “I can’t make the spring come any faster, Meera.  That’s beyond my powers. And besides…” he looked at the roots of the tree where he’d been seated and shuddered.  “I’m not connected to the trees anymore.  At least…”  He reached behind him and held the weirwood root.  Then he cocked his head and looked up at the ravens wheeling overhead. Meera followed his gaze and nodded.

“We’ll bring what we can,” she said.   Bran closed his eyes and for a moment, his face was so purely still. 

“The birds will come north again with the longer days,” he said.  “Soon.  The sooner we get south, the more there will be.”

“Well, let’s hope we live that long.”  They all twisted around and found Gendry there, with several fish and a surly expression.

Meera got to her feet and extended her hand.  “Ser Gendry, I take it,” she said.

“Lady Reed,” he said stiffly, half-bowing.  He wore the expression he always wore when he bowed to lords and ladies, one that begrudged the gesture, and the lord or lady, and the whole world that made him bow, no matter how far he’d come from Flea Bottom.  When he stood straight again, he took Meera’s hand, and seemed unsure as to whether he should kiss it or not until she began to shake his. 

“We’ll live,” Arya said loudly.  “We’ve all of us lived this long.  Spring is on the way. And home.”  She smiled at Gendry, willing him to smile back. He hadn’t smiled once since the cave. If anything, he had been more surly than he had been when it had been just the two of them on the road in the cold, starving.  She didn’t understand at all, and missed his smile, missed his warmth, missed him, even though he was right there. 

He did not smile. Instead he shrugged and said. “We should make sure to collect as many fish as we can before we go.  And ravens.”

“There are fish again?” Meera asked.  “In the river?”

“A few. Not many.  And not big.  But some.”

“And…and nothing else? There hasn’t been…?”

“No,” Bran said firmly, though there was an empty tinge to his voice that made Arya cock her head at him. He ignored the gesture. “We’ll leave tomorrow, then?”

“To Winterfell tomorrow,” Arya said, and the emptiness in his eyes seemed to vanish for a moment, and something almost like excitement flickered there.

* * *

Whatever excitement was in Bran’s eyes vanished the next morning when he left the cave for the first time in five years.  It took both Gendry and Meera to get him up on top of Anvil in front of Arya, and he sunk against her weakly, hands clinging tightly to the tops of her legs while they wrapped cloth around his middle to strap him to her. 

“I’ve got you,” she whispered in his ears, her arms firmly at his waist, and he nodded.

It was slow going down the hill.  Anvil was nervous, and did not like being in the cold, and going through the snow again, not least because it was littered with bones and remains. 

“Those weren’t here when we got here,” Arya said blankly. 

“The wolves dug them up,” Meera said, and Arya felt a chill that had little to do with the cold run through her gut. 

“How long have they been dead?  Some of that meat’s surely rotten,” Gendry said, voicing the question that filled Arya’s mind.

“They wouldn’t have eaten it if they thought it was bad,” Meera said.

“Unless they were hungry,” Gendry argued.  “And they were. They are.” 

But if the meat was bad, the wolves gave no sign of it.  For the next three days, they ran ahead—sometimes Nymeria loping off over a mile away, sometimes Summer.  Ghost always went, and Arya closed her eyes briefly whenever she saw his great shaggy white tail disappearing through the trees.  _He’s not Jon_ , she thought firmly. _Jon’s gone_.

She always hugged Bran closer to her after that and, as if he knew what she was thinking, Bran would turn and look at her and let his head rest on her shoulder.

He was taller than she was. It was odd—something that she hadn’t noticed when he’d been reclining against the cave wall, but now that he rode in front of her, legs dangling limply along Anvil’s flanks, his back pressed to her front, she could tell.  He had almost half a head on her, and for all she knew he was still growing. _He’s young_ , she thought.  _Four and ten, and a king_.

She had felt near enough a hundred when she’d been four and ten, and Bran had the voices of the gods in his head.  Sometimes, he would mutter to himself, and she wondered what he was saying, who he was talking to. Other times, he would lean back against her, unconscious. 

She could tell when he was seeing and when he was sleeping from the way he breathed.

Bran barely ate, he trembled when they brought him down from Anvil’s back, and each night, when she wrapped herself around him, her on one side, Meera Reed on the other, she worried at how frail he was.

“It was never going to be easy, with him a cripple,” she whispered to Gendry one morning as they rolled their furs and gathered their things from the encampment. “But…But I never thought it would be quite like this.”

Gendry only grunted, and wrapped an arm around her comfortingly and she was so glad he was there. She liked Meera well enough, and if it had just been she and Meera, she was sure they would have managed, but Gendry was bigger than all of them, and stronger too, and he could carry Bran so well.  But even besides all that, she couldn’t whisper her fears to Meera Reed.  She wouldn’t have been able to whisper them to anyone besides Gendry.  Except Jon.

Bran’s arms were still weak.  He was not accustomed to sitting up straight and often complained of aches in his lower back, near where the weirwood root had dug itself into his skin, and Arya could tell that he only complained hours after it had begun paining him. She wished bitterly that they had some sort of cloth, anything that they could wrap around his middle to give him extra support.  But every piece of cloth they had was already being used—to keep them warm, to keep Anvil warm, to fight away the cold that bit at their faces.

At nights, when they stopped to rest, Bran was quick to fall asleep, and had to be awakened to eat.

“He’s like a babe,” Gendry muttered to Arya.  “Except bigger. And makes sense when he talks, sometimes.”

“He’s feeble,” Arya said. “He’ll get stronger once we’re in Winterfell.”  _We’re all stronger in Winterfell,_ she added silently. It was something that Sansa had said over and over again during the siege.  “ _So long as we’re all here, and here together, I know no ill will befall us.  We’re stronger together, and stronger_ here.”

“He’d best get stronger before then,” Gendry said, and his expression was serious. “This is not a place to be failing.”

He wasn’t wrong. Though each day they moved south, the light grew longer, that didn’t make it any warmer.  The snow was still thick on the ground, and by the time the sun set every day, there was a thin layer of ice on top of it from where it had melted slightly.  At Meera’s suggestion, they wrapped his legs in furs both day and night, since he could not use them and make the blood go through them.  “Not that it would matter if my toes became frostbitten,” Bran had said darkly.

“It would so,” Arya had insisted hotly, and a sad smile crossed his face.

“His humor’s gone black,” Arya had confided to Gendry while they walked.  Meera was sitting with Bran today, and she and Gendry led Anvil through the snow.   Summer was close by, but Nymeria and Ghost had been far away most of the morning.

“Has it?” Gendry asked.

“Yes. He never used to joke about losing toes, or…or…” the night before he’d made a comment about how with his luck, no one would remember that he’d been at all a part of saving them all from the White Walkers.  “ _I’m easily forgettable_ ,” he’d said, shrugging lightly. “ _Up in a cave all on my own.  What does it matter what I died_?”

“He’s had it hard,” Gendry said.  “Mayhaps he finds the joking relieves some of the pain.  That’s how Tom always was.” 

Arya chewed her lip, and cast a glance over her shoulder.

“Are you talking about me?” Bran asked her.

“As if you wouldn’t know,” she responded, and his lips twisted in a half-smile.

“Perhaps, but I like to pretend that I don’t know everything.  It makes for easier conversation.”

Arya rolled her eyes at him, then turned back to Gendry and made a significant expression.

“He’s just older,” Gendry said.  “Older, and life’s not been easy.  That’s what you’re saying. It’s nothing to worry about.”

But it was, she thought. She saw demons dancing in Bran’s eyes when he stared at Gendry’s night fires.  She saw the way he hid a blackness behind his smiles, as if hoping that Arya wouldn’t notice.  But she did.

 _I notice everything_ , she thought.  _I learned to read a face and I’m good at it.  And Bran’s…Bran’s…_

The only word that came to mind was sad.

Painfully, soul-crushingly sad.  _He knows too much and wants to forget it_.  But try as she might, Arya could not make Bran forget whatever it was that haunted him.  It made her sad—sad that she’d come all this way and saved him from a fate in a cave and a faded life, but that she could do nothing to relieve the burden of the world. It felt like she’d barely helped at all, though she knew that wasn’t true.

She recited for him as much of the plays she’d learned as Mercy as best she could remember, she sang for him the sea shanties she’d learned though her voice was low and rough, she even made up stories off the top of her head, lies she’d wished she’d told and others she pretended she had, Bran would nod, and listen, but his eyes would stay bleak.  Sometimes, he would stare off into the darkness, or, if he was riding, into the light, and she wondered where his mind was, and wished more than anything, she could make him laugh.

 _If he were Jon, I could.  I could always make Jon smile_.  And not just the smile on Bran’s face, the easy smile that came like a mask. The one that he’d always had when they were little, the one that made his blue eyes sparkle like the sky, like Robb’s and Rickon’s and…

She didn’t want to think of mother’s eyes.

They had not sparkled when last she’d seen them.  They’d looked bleak.  Like Bran’s.

Gendry was her solace. Gendry, who slept at her back every night, his breath warming her neck, who she stole kisses from in the morning before Bran and Meera woke, whose eyes were blue like Bran’s, but not so bleak, always alert, always watching her.  It felt like years since she’d been angry with him for holding her back when Jon was slain—a more distant memory than the road that had led them to Harrenhal, and away from it again.  For then, it had been the two of them on the road as well, with some others, sometimes afoot, sometimes horsed, but the two of them, always the two of them.

 _When we’re back in Winterfell, I’ll have to do something to show him how grateful I am he came in the end_ , she thought. _Though I’ll have to be sly about it._   Gendry didn’t like it when you gave him things. 

It was the stupidest thing in the world.  He went on and on and on about how he had earned his knighthood, and worked hard in his smithy, and had risen through the ranks guarding the realms of men because of his adaptability and whatever it was he was pleased about that day, but if Arya tried to do one nice thing for him—make him captain of guards, or even convince Bran to give him a holdfast, he’d laugh in her face and say that he didn’t need her bloody patronage—she _knew_ he would. As if that was why she was doing it. As if she weren’t doing it because she loved him, and wanted him to be happy and wanted him to _know_ that she would never be able to repay him.

That gave her pause. Not the idea but the words. She loved him. Was this love? It felt nothing like the songs that Sansa used to moon over, stories of gallantry and pageantry. It felt nothing like her love for Jon, or Bran, or Rickon, or Sansa, for her parents and Robb. But it felt strong, whatever it was. That desire that he be happy, the warmth she felt whenever they touched, and the way his smile made her feel safe. Was that love? It could be, she supposed. It felt simpler than what the songs and stories had made it sound like.  Something as simple as her heart swelling in her chest at the very thought of him.

That must be love.

She loved him. She was…in love with him?

She’d never thought to _be_ in love. Who would ever love her? And love was for people who married, like her parents, unless the lovers were starcrossed like in Sansa’s songs. But she and Gendry weren’t starcrossed lovers.  Did that mean…Surely it didn’t mean that they should marry?

She chewed her lip, thinking.

Gendry was older than her—that was to be sure.  He might want to marry.  He’d never spoken of it, though.  Maybe he didn’t expect to marry, the way she didn’t.  But that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t _want_ to marry, did it?  And did she? She loved him, that was true, but marriage?

She thought of Gendry, lying abed with him, riding at his side, laughing or arguing, and even—for the first time in her life—imagined a dark haired child in her arms. She felt her heart swelling. _But I can’t leave Bran, or Rickon—not yet._   She thought. 

It was confusing, but she didn’t have to decide—not right away, at least.  Let her enjoy simply being in love for a moment. Love didn’t have to mean marriage, after all.  At least, not in her case. Unless she wanted to. And she did.  But—she was going in circles. 

“What are you scowling about?” Gendry asked her.

“Nothing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you stupid.”

He was stupid sometimes. He would be stupid about Bran, if Bran gave him a lordship.  That washed away the warmth of her realization and she rolled her eyes at him.

Gendry cocked his head, looking thoroughly confused.

“Well, nothing’s got to be driving you mad, then.”

“Shut up.”

That made him grin. He had such a nice grin. If only he weren’t so stupid sometimes, he’d grin more.  He could grin if she got Bran to give him a holdfast.  Seven Hells, Bran would probably give him a holdfast all on his own, simply because Gendry helped him piss without getting himself all covered in urine.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged. 

“I will, thanks,” she snapped.

He was right of course—it was enough to drive her mad.  He was enough to drive her mad.  Whether it was kissing her until she sighed, or making her laugh, or infuriating because of his simple pigheadedness, he was enough to make her mad.  And for that alone, she loved him.

* * *

“Do you hear something?” Arya asked, from horseback.  Bran’s head had been hurting that morning when they’d awoken.  They’d melted snow for him to drink, and had tried to give him some extra food, but they’d run out of raven  _days_ before, and there was no sign of life anywhere in the woods. The snow crunched beneath Gendry’s feet, and Anvil’s hooves, and the wolves’ padding paws, but other than that, everything was completely desolate.

“Princess?” Meera Reed asked. Gendry’s nostrils flared. Meera Reed kept calling her “Princess.”

They all stood very still for a moment, listening, and Arya closed her eyes for a moment the way she did when she wore Nymeria’s skin.  Nymeria would be able to hear it, whatever it was, or smell it, whatever it was. But she opened her eyes within seconds and sadly shook her head. 

“Wishful thinking,” Meera said sadly. 

“Maybe it was my own stomach growling,” Arya sighed. 

Bran winced and buried his head into her neck, and Arya wrapped her arms around him again and nudged Anvil with her feet. 

“I wonder what would happen if we ate the bark off trees the way Anvil does,” Meera asked Gendry quietly as they kept on with their trudging.

“Splinters in our stomachs, most like,” Gendry grunted.

Meera sighed. “I know,” she sighed. Then she cast a glance back at the horse.  “When we came up north, we were led by a wight on the back of an elk.  We killed his elk to keep from starving.”

Gendry looked back as well. “We ate Arya’s horse,” he said. “And boiled her bones to have something to mix with snow melt.”  They’d boiled the raven bones as well, and Meera had twined their feathers together with horsehair to make odd feathered wraps for them to wear. Gendry had scoffed, but he’d been surprised at how much warmer he’d been with a layering of feathers.

Anvil was bigger than Thistle had been, and sturdier too.  He was still very thin, though, and not for the first time, Gendry wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just kill him and have done with it. “But we’d have to carry Bran somehow.”

“We could build a sledge,” Meera suggested.

“Hmmm,” Gendry nodded. “It’d be hard to drag along, though. It would wear us out, and when we run out of meat there’s no promise we’d find more, and then we’d be stuck starving and dragging him along.”

Meera gave Gendry a sharp look.  “He’s our king,” she said and there was a ferocity to her voice that reminded him almost of Arya.

 _Your king_ , Gendry almost wanted to say but he didn’t. He wasn’t a northerner, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t stay in the North. 

He didn’t know where he would go, or what he would do, but he had this aching feeling in his stomach that he wouldn’t ever go far from Arya, and he doubted that she’d leave the North ever again.  Though what he’d do with himself…She’d gone on and on when she’d been little about his working in her brother’s forge.  He didn’t want that.  He didn’t want to serve some bloody king, but that was what knights did, wasn’t it? Serve some greater lord? Or travel around and have adventures, but he didn’t know if he wanted an adventure after this. The idea of being in one place for a time was appealing, maybe even…but no.  No, that wouldn’t even begin to be allowed.  He might be a knight, but he was still a bastard, and besides, what would she want marrying him?  He couldn’t imagine her married to anyone.  _Except you.  If it’s someone, it’s going to be you._

Sometimes he wished he had better control over his thoughts, because that one wasn’t helpful—nor was the image of Arya smiling down at him from horseback as she rode into the lichyard after having been off doing…something.  He didn’t know what.  Something in service of Bran.  _He’s her king_ , he thought.  _And she’s a bloody princess_. _And you won’t be stealing no kisses from a princess_. He’d stolen her maidenhead, though. Well, not stolen. She’d given it gladly, and even in the mornings, she still kissed him, and she could make him smile when he thought he’d forgotten how because he was too bleeding hungry. No.  No, he’d never be far from her.

He sighed.

“Doesn’t make a difference. We’d still wear ourselves to the bone dragging a sledge.”

Meera was watching him closely.  He didn’t like the way she was looking at him.  He couldn’t place her expression at all, but he was sure in that moment that there was something almost…

“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Ser Gendry?” she asked him.  Gendry frowned at her.  She’d only called him Ser once, right after they’d met.  She was always calling Arya “princess,” even if she never called Bran “Your Grace” or Gendry “Ser.”  Except now.

“No,” he replied shortly. He remembered that girl Bella from the Peach, who’d said she was Robert Baratheon’s bastard too. And Lady Sansa’s—Princess Sansa, he supposed too, though no one called her that.  Queen Sansa, since she was now married to the southron king—friend, Mya Stone.  But they weren’t siblings—not for true.  He wouldn’t have crossed thousands of miles of snow and emptiness at the risk of his own life for them. He wouldn’t hold them to him the way that Arya held Bran now, her fingers weaving through his hair while he shuddered against her.  Not a one of them knew what a bowl of brown tasted like, the scent of newly melted steel, what the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor sounded like when they rang for prayer. They had his blood—so what? They’d never known his mother.

“I’d be careful what you say, then,” she said, and her green eyes were sharp.  “Older sisters can be protective.”

“He’s not your brother,” Gendry pointed out dryly.

Meera raised her eyebrows. “He knew my brother, though. And remembers him. And apart from me, who else is there to do that?  He’s the only brother I’ve had for years now.  He’s all I have of Jojen.”

Gendry opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again.  He saw the way that Arya still looked longingly at Ghost, the way she’d screamed and fought in his arms when Jon had stepped in to slay the Night’s King, and Lady—Queen—Sansa’s pallor when Arya had refused to wake up. _Not just older sisters_ , he thought grimly.  He wondered what it would be like to have a sister who loved him that fiercely. 

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said.  That sounded fine and fancy.

“Of course,” Meera said, though her voice was still cool.  “Better you say it to me than to her, I imagine.”

“What do you mean?” Gendry asked quickly.

“Can you imagine how you saying something like that would hurt her?”

She wasn’t wrong, and Gendry frowned.  Meera rolled her eyes. “You definitely never had a sister, did you. No one to ever tell you how to behave.”

“Only Arya,” he muttered.

That made Meera laugh.

“Well, that explains a great deal.”

“What—”

But Meera just shook her head.  “Well, I’ll sister you some now.  You won’t like it, but you need it.”

“I don’t need it,” he griped.

“Yes you do. Everyone needs it.”

“I do not need it. I’ve been just fine on my own, thanks.”

“You haven’t been.”

Gendry glared at her, which only made her laugh harder. 

“What’s so funny?” Bran called.

“Ser Gendry makes for a very different sort of travel companion than Jojen,” Meera said, her voice going from light to dark in only a few words.  “Just as stubborn, though.”


	12. Arya; Gendry

She dreamed of Jon. She dreamed he was lying in the snow next to her, his long face so like father’s and his breath coming in and out gently.

“I miss you,” she whispered to him.

“I’m here, little sister. You don't have to miss me.”

“You aren’t here. You're gone.”

Jon frowned at her. Then reached out and rubbed his hand over the top of her head, mussing her hair in its braid. “Not gone. Not so long as you remember me. Not so long as the trees remember, and the singers sing of dawn.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m here with you,” he said firmly. And he hugged her tightly, and she buried her face in his neck the way that Bran buried his face in hers. 

“Never leave,” she begged.

“Never forget.”

It wasn’t Jon’s voice that spoke. It was the raspy remnant of her mother’s voice and when she opened her eyes Jon was gone and her mother’s mottled flesh was pressed to her face.

Arya gasped, and jerked back.

They were all there—her mother, her father, Jon, Lommy Greenhands, and Polliver and the Tickler and Raff the Sweetling, even the two boys she hadn't meant to kill—one from King’s Landing and the other from the Inn at the Crossroads. 

Arya gasped and shuddered, but couldn’t look away. Why couldn't she be dreaming of Nymeria? Or Bran? Or Gendry and his strong hands and soft kisses?

She jerked awake to feel arms around her. Bran’s arms on one side, and Gendry’s on the other. _Not Jon’s. Not the rest’s._ She lay there between them, breathing, trying to forget the faces from her dream, but not quite succeeding.

She'd never been good at forgetting. Even if she wanted to, even if she didn't want to remember her mother's dangling feet, or the way that Jon's body had gone suddenly and painfully still.

She twisted and nuzzled into Gendry, and even in his sleep she felt his arms grow tighter around her, and she felt safe. She always felt safe with Gendry. Even if there was no danger now. Nothing even in the woods. Only the ghosts of her own past that wouldn't be laid to rest.

* * *

It was Anvil that made the decision for them. 

One minute, they were trudging along through the snow and the next, Gendry heard a snap, and a whinny, and Arya’s shout and he whirled around to find that Anvil had fallen through the snow.

His heart was in his throat all of a sudden as he heard Arya shouting, “Bran!  Bran!”  Anvil may have been thinner than any horse should be, but he was still huge and heavy. If he’d fallen and landed on one of them—he could easily have crushed their legs, or worse and—

His feet were moving almost without his being aware, and a moment later, he and Meera were helping hoist Bran out of the snow, and Meera was dragging him away from the fallen horse while Gendry reached out a hand and pulled Arya up. It seemed that Anvil had fallen straight down, and the snow had kept him from keeling from one side to the other, and Gendry felt relief wash over him.

“You all right?” he asked her quietly, squeezing her hand.

“Yes,” she said, though she sounded out of breath.  She peered over his shoulder to Bran.

“I’m fine,” he called, sounding anything but.  “Just startled. Is Anvil all right?”

Gendry and Arya knelt down and Gendry took Anvil’s bridle and gave it a tug.  “Come on there,” he said to the garron.  “Come on, let’s get you up.  You’re fine.  Just frightened.”

But Anvil, unlike Arya and unlike Bran, was not fine.  Gendry saw whites as his eyes rolled in what seemed to be pain and the harder they tried to guide him from the snow, the more he seemed determined to remain there.

The horse went still for a moment, and then Gendry heard Bran’s voice, sad and resigned, “His leg’s broken.”

Gendry looked at Arya. Arya looked at Gendry. “Well, that’s it then,” he said, sighing.  Arya unsheathed Needle and looked at Anvil.  The blade moved quickly, and blood spattered across the snow and Arya bit her lip to keep from crying.  He’d been a good horse, stalwart and brave as a horse could be, but his leg would have killed him more painfully than Arya ever could have.  Gendry knew that Arya knew this.  It was why she had stepped forward to kill him, rather than making Gendry do it. But, all the same, he was sure that wouldn’t make Arya feel much better as she wiped her blade clean of his blood.

Between the three of them, Gendry, Meera, and Arya made quick work of cutting Anvil apart, cleaning him to the bone, then freezing the meat in the snow.  The wolves watched hungrily, and when they’d finished, ate at Anvil’s innards and gnawed on his bones. 

Gendry lit a fire for them, and Arya set about cutting the meat into smaller chunks and skewering them to cook on the fire. 

“Come on,” Meera said patting Gendry on the shoulder.

“What?” he asked.

“We need to find something to build a sledge out of,” she said, nodding at Bran.

“I can come,” Arya said, but Meera shook her head. 

“He can carry more than us.”

Arya looked at Gendry and despite the cold and the rumbling in his stomach that the smell of blood and cooked meat had awoken in him, Gendry was pleased with the way that Arya’s eyes drifted almost lazily over his shoulders and chest and waist. He liked the way she looked at him and then smiled up at him, even if her smile was more determined than lustful.

“Don’t be long,” she said. “This won’t take long to cook.”

“Thank god,” Gendry said. He wanted to kiss her before leaving, but Meera had already gone off into the trees. 

The woods were as silent as they had been before, with only the sound of their feet crunching through snow. “We’ll take turns pulling him,” Meera said.

“Don’t,” Gendry sighed.

“We will. Arya and I—”

“I’ll do it.”

Meera’s eyes narrowed. “We can help, you know.”

“What sort of man would I be if I let you wear yourselves out like that?”

“What sort of woman carries a frogspear, or a sword?  This isn’t—”

“I can carry more,” Gendry said.  “I’m a blacksmith. I’ve got muscles.”

“I’d noticed,” Meera said, her voice somewhere between earnest and dry.  “Doesn’t mean you have to do it all on your own.”

“It’d be nice if those wolves pulled their weight.  Wouldn’t it be nice, harnessing the sledge around Ghost?  Or Summer?”  He doubted Nymeria would submit to a harness.

Meera looked at him sharply.  “They’re not packhorses. They’re direwolves.”

“Of course,” Gendry said, her tone stinging.  “I know that. It was just a thing to say.”

“It won’t be so bad,” Meera said, but she didn’t sound like she believed it. She certainly didn’t know how to make it easier, the sense of foreboding that Gendry had. He’d gotten used to saddlesores by now, and then gotten unused to them again once they had reached Bran. He thought of the way that his shoulders would strain under the weight of a sledge.  _The direwolves aren’t packhorses, but I am_ , he thought bitterly.  So what if Meera and Arya offered to help.  They might not be weak women, but they weren’t strong like him. They wouldn’t last long dragging the sledge along.  _Not that I’ll be much better_. 

He hated thinking that. Hated thinking that he was weak. He shouldn’t be weak.  But he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks, and he felt his muscles thinning under his furs. He hated that too. _Not even worth being a blacksmith.  Might as well be a…be a…_ but he couldn’t think of whatever else he could be. His mind was full of the drunken louts his mother had used to talk to when he was a small child, who never seemed to do anything.  _Thieves and destitutes most like.  Nothings.  Nowhere to be. That sounds about right._

A different voice filled his head as he and Meera began cutting away at a thick branch. _Not nothing.  Not nowhere. Arya.  Arya wants you, remember_.

_Not the way I want her.  She’s got her brothers.  And her sister._

Searching for sturdy looking branches took them through the better part of the remaining daylight, and by the time they made it back to the camp, Anvil’s meat had long finished cooking, and Arya was stretching out his skin as best she could. “Thought it would make a good lining for the sledge,” she said.

Gendry nodded at her. It was a good idea. He’d thought they’d just spread the furs out over the top, but having the skin underneath would help.

Once they finished eating, Meera braided and rebraided Anvil’s mane and tail hair then used it to tie the branches in place.  Then she helped Arya stretch the horse skin over it, and then, for good measure, they tested Bran and the weight of the furs on it.  It was lighter than Gendry had expected—probably because Bran was so thin.

“It’ll hold, I think,” Gendry said.  They hadn’t heard any creaking or cracking, not that that would matter.  If a branch broke, they’d find another. 

“I’m more worried about the hair,” Arya said quietly, looking at the joints of the sledge. “If it falls apart…”

“They won’t,” Gendry said, sounding more confident than he felt.  But his confidence was infectious, it seemed, and when the four of them went to sleep beneath their furs that night, bellies full for the first time in days, he almost didn’t feel nervous about this new change. Almost.

* * *

She smelled them. Smelled them in the trees, high up where she couldn’t reach them.  She heard the quick thumping of their hearts, felt heat as if her nose were pressed against it.

Beside her, her brothers trembled, hungry.  But birds made for bad prey.  They could fly.

* * *

Arya woke to the twanging of a bowstring and a delighted cry and sat bolt upright, cold flooding over her.  She had been so warm, so comfortable, Gendry’s arms around her waist, his cock pressed against her hip and Bran’s steady heartbeat under her hands.   Meera Reed was grinning, and holding a dead owl in her hands.

“It’s not much,” she said happily, “But it’s something.”

Arya grinned and extracted herself from the furs, Gendry rolling over and lying next to Bran, his eyes still determinedly closed.

He hadn’t complained—not once.  But she knew he ached. She could feel it in the way his arms wrapped around her, and the way he winced and packed snow onto his shoulders at the end of each day.  He did, after the first few days of dragging the sledge, concede that between them, Arya and Meera could pull it well for a little while, but for the most part, he shook off their offers of help with a gruff snort.  She knew that hunger made it worse, the headaches that came from an empty belly.  Any piece of meat would help.

“The birds are coming north,” Arya said happily.  “And mice, do you think? Rats as well?’

“Hard to know,” Meera said. “I wish I knew how far south we’d come.”

Arya grimaced. She knew they _had_ come further south.  That much was obvious.  Daylight stretched for longer than it had in _years_ now, and when the sun was at its highest in the sky, Arya could sometimes almost feel warmth on her face.  Never as warm as she felt in Gendry’s arms, but she didn’t think she’d ever feel that warm.

“When we get to Winterfell,” she announced, “I plan to swim in the hot springs in the godswood until I forget what it is to be cold.”

“That sounds nice,” Meera said.  She sounded happy—content, even.  She and Arya began plucking the owl, and by the time that Gendry and Bran were awake, there was freshly cooked meat for them to eat.

It was amazing what the difference of sunlight and the odd bird could do. While they were still quite cold, and though their stomachs still did growl, they went to sleep with smiles on their faces. And when Arya ran in Nymeria’s skin, the wolf was not so hungry as Arya would have thought, though she did her best not to think of the meat that the wolf would have eaten. And though the snow was hard over-night, there were times when Arya saw water glistening on the trees by days. She heard the calls of birds, and even—her heart leapt to hear it the first time—the running of a brook.

They knew they were near the Wall when they found an empty circle of houses, and they delighted in the four walls that kept the wind at bay, and that night, when she slept, Arya didn’t dream, and was the last to awaken of all of them.

It was hard not to feel optimistic, though she knew they still had miles to go, and such snows to cross.  Hard not to feel as though they were near home, though Winterfell was far away.  There had been no storms, though there had been snow that fell at night, or during the day, they were great clumps of snow, the sort that Arya had learned came from warmer air, and not from the deepest rages of winter.

“I recognize this place,” Bran murmured one day, looking around from his seat on the sledge. “Why do I recognize this place?”  

It was a circle of trees—a perfect circle, Arya noticed.  There were no weeping red eyes of a weirwood anywhere in sight. Then Bran let out a happy shout. “We’re nearly south of the Wall. We’re less than a day away!”

“You’re sure?”

Gendry asked quickly.

“Positive! I remember this.”

Meera frowned. “I don’t, Your Grace,” she said, quietly.

But Bran shook his head. “We didn’t come this way. But Brandon the Bastard did.”

“Who?” Arya asked. She’d never heard of Brandon the Bastard.

“Another greenseer,” Bran said quietly.  “A thousand years ago, or more, maybe.  He rode north with five hundred men to do battle with a wildling king, and smashed them to bits. He camped here after passing under…” he frowned.  “Under the Wall at Oakenshield.” 

“Not Castle Black?”

“No. But it’s the next one over,” Bran said. “We’ll find the Kingsroad and—”

They heard a snapping and saw six men and two women, in heavy, shaggy furs entering the clearing.

Arya’s hand flew to her sword’s hilt—not Needle, her true sword, the heavy one that wasn’t the size of a child’s toy in her hand. 

“What have we here?” said one of the men, his eyes going from Gendry—clearly the largest threat to his mind, to Meera and Arya, and lastly to Bran on his sledge.

“Looks to me like just a band of travelers,” said the woman.  “A fine and merry band.”

“I’ll give you my name, if you give me yours, friend,” Arya said, and the man looked at her with eyebrows raised.

“Am I your friend?” he said. His voice was light.  “A friend would share her meat with me.”

One of the other men guffawed and Arya saw Gendry stiffen. 

“Aye,” Arya said, “More’s the pity your meat wouldn’t fill me up nicely.”

The woman nearest to them let out a shout of laughter.  “Leave them be, Vern.  They’ve got good steel.”

“I see it,” Vern snapped at her.  “And I want it.” He took a step towards Arya.

She saw Gendry make to step between them, but it was Bran’s voice that filled the clearing, sounding unlike Bran as she’d heard him before.  His voice was full of command.  He sounded a king.  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

“Oh?” Vern said, cocking his head.  “And what’s a sickly little boy like you going to do about it?”  _He doesn’t know about Bran’s legs_ , Arya thought. 

“ _Warg._ He’s a _warg_!” Arya heard someone shout and a moment later Summer hulked into the clearing, twice the size of any of the Free Folk who’d come.  And behind Summer loomed Ghost, and Nymeria.

Bran spoke again. “My wolf is hungry,” he said. “And has gotten used to the taste of human flesh in these woods that are so littered with the remains of thousands dead.  But your blood is warm.”

“We weren’t going to hurt you,” said another man.  “Promise, warg. By the blood of the fallen snow.”

“You’ll speak nicely and respectfully to my sister,” Bran said.  She heard a smile on his voice.  “Believe it or not, she’s more a danger to your person than I am.”

“She’s the one with the sword,” pointed out the other woman. 

“Starks. They’re Starks.” It was the youngest of the men who spoke, one with the beginnings of a whispy yellow beard on his chin. “That’s Arya Thousand Wolves.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sim,” snapped Vern.  “Arya Thousand Wolves died in the…in the…” he looked between Arya, then again at Bran and his jaw dropped.  “Bless my bloody balls, it _is_.  You’re _not_ dead then.”

“Who says we’re dead?” Arya demanded.

“What’s his name. Ryswell.  Said that that was why the southron queen couldn’t hear the voice of her king anymore.  You all had froze to death in the snow.  She said it weren’t true, but there wasn’t many what believed her.  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d killed to have her way.”

“Sansa didn’t kill anyone,” Arya said at the same time that Bran said, “What nonsense is this?”

“She killed what’s his name.  The Lord Protector of the Vale, or the one that was that.  And it was her and her husband what killed the old king.   The stupid one.  Jodfrey or—”

“She didn’t kill Joffrey,” Arya sighed.  “She had nothing to do with that.”  _Or at least, she didn’t know that she did_.

“The slayer queen,” said one of the woman.  “That’s what some of you southerners started calling her.  The ones who call for the youngest to be crowned.”

Arya looked at Bran, and Bran looked at Arya.  He grimaced.

“Are you the first to press north?” Gendry asked.  “Or are there others?”

“There’re others. Not all of them come this way. We split off—heading for Brownhill t’see if there’s any—” but the young man, Sim, was elbowed hard in the ribs by one of the women.

“You shut up.”

“They’re _Starks_.  That one’s a bloody _king_ , Mav.”

“Mayhaps, but—”

“I can assure you we have no interest in whatever’s going on in Brownhill,” Arya said loudly. “Did any of the Northern Lords press north as well?”

“The big one did. Umber.  Him and his.  Said that if the King was still alive he’d have his castle ready to host him. I don’t know about others. He was faster’n us though. Had horses.”

 _Last Hearth_ , Arya thought excitedly. If they were lucky, that was only a week away from where they stood then, and the Greatjon might well have outriders stationed along the Kingsroad.  _Warmth, and a castle and food_ , she thought excitedly.

“I thank you, friend,” Arya said to Sim, who blushed under his beard.  “This news is welcome.”

“There ain’t nothing to eat up north, is there?” asked the second woman.

“There are birds sometimes,” Arya said.  “But we haven’t seen elk, or anything…”

“Might be some shadowcats over in the frostfangs,” muttered one of the men who’d been silent. “Or goats.  There was goats up in the mountains.  Apparently they all huddled and climbed all winter and ate trees and such.  Goats can live off anything.”

“Then mayhaps there are some goats in the north as well, buried beneath the snow,” Arya smiled.

“Will you share our fire for the night?” Bran asked.  “I’d hear what news you can give me.” 

Gendry lit the fire, and Meera and Sim and the second woman, Yarla, went off and came back with four thin birds to split between the ten of them.  Arya sat with Bran and listened to the stories that these Free Folk had to tell.  Many of theDornish had stayed.  They had no boats to take them home, and did not have furs to traverse the winter. But they were planning to leave now that the days were growing long again.  Tyrion Lannister had taken his men south almost at once to see what damage the dragonflame and wildfire had done to King’s Landing, and determine if he would have his court there, or remove to Casterly Rock. The Knights of the Vale had left as soon as they could, the riverlords had been planning on leaving to soon after the Free Folk, and the lords of the Stormlands and the Reach had sailed off when first they were able.  “The Sea Bitch is still there, though.  Won’t leave her mad brother behind.  He wants to wait for the king.  Keeps saying he’s alive and alive, but everyone knows that by now—that he didn’t kill them. You.”

It felt like when Arya had been a girl at table, listening to her father’s men report to him. But now she sat with Bran, who leaned back on his seat on the sledge and listened carefully to every word.

They sang songs later in the night.  Songs Arya hadn’t heard before.  Songs about Jon.

 

_And snow fell but Lord Snow stood tall,_

_In a cloak as black as night._

_With stars in his hair, a man ne’er so fair_

_The hero who saved us all_.

 

“Your sister wrote that one,” Mav said to Arya. 

“She wrote it?” Sansa had never _written_ any songs before.  She’d just loved them

Mav nodded. “She’s a lovely voice. And a quick wit for tunes.”

 _She made Jon a hero in the songs_ , Arya thought. It was fitting. And she could almost hear Sansa singing it, her voice high and gentle as she sat sewing by a fire, first to herself, and then over dinner before all the gathered men.

 

_“Come stand with me, my brothers,” he said,_

_“Come stand with me for all.”_

_For to him all men were brothers,_

_For though the Wall had fallen,_

_Fallen in ice and fear,_

_It wasn’t the Wall that defended the realm,_

_But the brothers who defended the Wall._

“In a thousand years, they’ll sing “Snow’s Fall” and wonder if it was ever truly true,” Arya found herself saying.  “Just as we heard Old Nan tell stories about Bran the Builder…”

No one replied. Bran was listening to the song so intently that he hadn’t noticed her words.  She saw Ghost lying just outside of the ring of fire, but he wasn’t watching her at all.  He was sniffing the air and his ears were flicking whenever the chorus of “And Lord Snow stood, Lord of all the Snows, for when winter comes, and the snows they fall, a man must stand his ground,” filled the campground.

She sighed and saw Gendry across the fire.  He was watching her, and she got to her feet and went over to sit with him.

“It’s a lovely song,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed. She wrapped her arm around his waist, and rested her head on his shoulder. 

They sat in silence, listening to the song, and sometimes, Arya would hum along, her voice low and rough. She’d never sounded half so pretty as Sansa when she sang, but whenever she hummed, Gendry did too, his voice rumbling deep in his chest and their voices sounded right together. _I was always rougher_ , she thought.  _But rough’s not so bad. And I can hold a tune._ Daena in Izembaro’s troupe had always said that women who sang low were her favorites. _Maybe that was always my problem.  Sansa sings high and I sing low_.  Sansa also liked singing more than Arya ever had, but this song…this she’d sing for the rest of her life, and remember Jon’s smile. 

“I miss him,” she whispered to Gendry.

“Of course you do,” he said.  “You were always going to.”

She nodded, and blinked back tears as a verse introducing the Night’s King began. “Sometimes I wake up and think he’ll be there.  Him and my parents and Robb.”

Gendry didn’t say anything to that, and Arya was sure he didn’t know what to say. But that didn’t matter so much.

“I’ll never leave you,” he said at last, and she twisted her head and smiled up at him.

“Promise?” she asked, knowing he meant it.

“Promise.”


	13. Gendry; Arya

In the morning, they bade farewell to the Free Folk, who were going to press on north and west towards the Frostfangs, the hopes of goats frozen in the snow to thaw and eat, and shadowcats and mammoths and whatever else lived and thrived in the lands that had once been north of a great ice wall.  And Meera and Bran and Gendry and Arya set off towards the south, towards Winterfell and home. 

They began sitting watch. They hadn’t needed to, north of the Wall, where there were no men, and they had direwolves to keep them safe from non-existent danger.  But south of the wall, with Free Folk perhaps crossing their path, they decided it would be a good idea.  For the most part, it was Meera and Arya who did.  Arya, leaning with her back against Nymeria, sometimes slipping into her skin and smelling the air for other people, or Meera sitting crosslegged and listening to the sound of the wind blowing across the empty snows. Gendry usually was given the whole night to sleep, since he was the one who dragged Bran’s sledge the longest. And of that, he was grateful. He was exhausted to his very bones these days, and the muscles in his chest and shoulders and back were constantly sore. Meera shot down winter birds nearly every day now, which helped alleviate some of the pain and exhaustion, but Gendry was fast to fall asleep when he slid beneath his furs of an evening, after lighting his night fire and praying quietly to the Lord of Light. The only thing that would have made it better was if Arya were asleep with him in the circle of his arms, but she usually took the first watch, and when he woke in the mornings, she had taken Meera’s place on the other side of Bran to keep him warm.

“You can come sleep next to me,” he’d said to her on the second day of it.

“I don’t want to wake you,” she’d replied, looking up at him with those deep grey eyes through her long black lashes.  There was such warmth there, such tenderness, that he couldn’t help smiling down at her.

“It’s all right,” he’d told her.  She’d kissed him quickly, but when he’d woken the next morning, she was still asleep on the far side of Bran.

It was a stupid thing to be annoyed about—he knew that.  And if he could think of one thing he wouldn’t mind these days—when he was constantly cold, and sore, and tired, it was Arya waking him in the night, and kissing him quickly before going to sleep herself.  If, of course, he woke up at all.  He slept like the dead these days.  But she hadn’t seemed to have understood that, so Gendry woke alone.

It was strange, waking up without her.  He’d done it for so long, after the Hound had taken her away, up until those cold first nights when it had been just the two of them pressing north, when Jon Snow still lived on in his white direwolf.  It had been months now, of her asleep next to him, and now nothing. He felt oddly empty. He didn’t like it. He’d spent too much of his life feeling oddly empty.

On the fifth night south of the Wall, he woke in the middle of the night and it took him a moment to realize what had awoken him.

Smoke, hissing, a snake? He opened his eyes and sat up, and felt something damp on his face.  Damp?

“Is it raining?” he asked Arya.

It was oddly warm, and though a chill rain over his skin as he shed the furs, it was a _chill_ , not the horrible sharp sensation of icy air.

“Not quite,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice.  “But the sleet’s melting as it reaches the ground.”

“So rain.”

“I suppose.”

He grinned at her, and she grinned back.

“Spring?” he asked her.

“I think so,” she replied. “I can’t remember spring. The last spring was when I was a baby.”

Gendry nodded at her, and awareness washed over him.  Bran and Meera were asleep, Bran snoring gently and Meera curled into a ball next to him on the other side.  When was the last time it had just been him and Arya?  When had they had a chance to talk, to be together, just the two of them? Not since Anvil had died, and maybe not even since before then.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and purple and green stars exploded in his eyes. Then he got up and went to sit next to her.

“You should rest,” she told him gently, and opened her cloak to wrap around his shoulders. “And you’ll catch sick if you aren’t careful.”

He kissed her, and she sighed into his mouth, her lips soft and her hands reaching up to brush his hair out of his face.  She slid her tongue in between his lips and he felt both of their lips arch upwards together as he opened his lips to hers, and he felt a familiar tugging in his breeches as his cock stirred. 

They were quick about it—Arya’s hands undoing his laces, and him undoing hers.  She wrapped her cloak about them both as he drew her onto his lap and she sank onto his cock, warm and wet and welcoming, gasping quietly into his neck as she began to roll her hips back and forth against him. It had been far too long, and Gendry was overcome quickly, and when he was done, he ran his fingers along her slit, gently first, then faster and harder until she bit his shoulder to keep from crying out, her heart thudding against his chest and her body trembling in his arms. 

She rested her head against his chest, then laughed.

“If we’d been set upon then, what would have happened?” she asked.

Gendry chuckled. “Well, there are worse ways to go.”

He felt her breath against the skin of his neck, a quiet laugh that he couldn’t hear.

For a moment, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep on his lap, since she’d gone so still. But then she was climbing off him, tugging her breeches back up her legs and sitting down next to him, resting her head on her shoulders.

“I’ve missed that,” she whispered to him.

He smiled. He had too, but it was nice to hear her say it.  “I have as well. Part of me misses when it was just the two of us.”  They were warmer—four sleeping rather than two, and Bran and Meera were nice enough, though he and Arya alone would have moved faster. 

“Hmm,” Arya agreed. She tilted her head up and kissed his neck and he relished the softness of her lips against his skin. “When we get back to Winterfell, we’ll spend days together—just the two of us abed.”

He liked the sound of that, and for a moment, he let the image of it wash over him—Arya and him, together, lying on furs, in a bed, before a fire, happy, lazy, laughing, loving. But a moment later, the image was gone, stamped out, because even if she said they would, he knew all too well that it wouldn’t happen.  She would help Bran, would see to the castle’s garrisons, would be a Stark of Winterfell and he…he’d be there.  Just there.

“And when we’re done?” he asked quietly.

“Done?” Arya asked, and he knew she hadn’t heard his question.  “I’ll never be through with you.”

He liked the sound of that as well, and he hated himself for the next words he said. “That’s not true, though.”

She went very still. “Of course it is.” Her voice was quiet, serious.

“I just meant,” he began, then stopped himself.  No—she wouldn’t ever leave him.  She wouldn’t. He knew that.  He’d be a fool not to have seen it, to see that she would never leave him behind.  He’d promised never to leave her, but she hadn’t promised never to leave him, but he’d heard it in her voice, that it was a proposal of some sort, that she was swearing it as well.  She wouldn’t ever leave him, but she’d never be his.  Not his, and his alone.  “There’ll always be something else, won’t there?  Winterfell, or Bran, or…”

She gaped at him, confusion crossing her face.  “What on earth does that mean, Gendry?” she asked him, and he heard a flicker of anger and hurt in her voice.

“Never mind,” he said quickly.  “Forget I said it.”

“I won’t though,” she said, and her voice almost mixed in with the wind as it gusted and the hiss of the fire as the half-rain half-sleet fell.

“Arya,” he began, but she cut him off.

“What did you mean?”

He hated the hardness in her voice.  Hated that he’d put it there.  So he told her. “It’ll never be just the two of us. There’ll always be something else to take you away from me.  And I haven’t got anything but you.”

Her mouth sprang open to retort, but she didn’t say a word.  She went very, very still, her eyes flicking between his, and he saw something in them—something he was almost scared to recognize, and he prayed he didn’t.

“That’s not true,” she said slowly.

“It is, Arya. You’re all I have. So what does it matter if I’m a knight, or a smith, or a bastard, or a king’s bastard.  You’re all I have now, and all I’ve ever had, and then you’ll go off and marry some Lord like—”

“I will not, don’t be stupid.”

“Edric Dayne and I’ll just be stuck some poor knighted bastard who’s in love with you and hasn’t got anything left.”

“You’ve got _plenty_ left—you’re a hero of war, and do you think there isn’t a place for you at Winterfell?”

“What does that matter if you’re not mine?”

“I _am_ yours though.”

“Except you’re _not_.  You—”

“You think because I have other things I care about and love that that makes me love you less somehow?”

The question hung in the air. And he knew that it wasn’t true, but she wasn’t getting it—she wasn’t getting it at all.  _You’re her pack_ , he reminded himself. _She doesn’t understand that you aren’t a pack animal._

“Look, that’s not what I mean.”

“You don’t think that what you have matters?  Your friends, your deeds, your honor, your valor, your—”

“My friends will go south, my deeds will fade with time, my honor is a bastard’s honor, my valor doesn’t matter without a war,” he snapped.  “You’re the only thing I have that’ll last, and you won’t last.”

“ _What on earth makes you say that?”_ her voice was shrill now, though quiet still.  She was trembling with anger.  Why didn’t she understand? Did she have to make him say it?

“You’re a Stark of Winterfell,” he said.  “When we get to Last Hearth, you’ll be greeted as a princess, and I’m nothing. You’ll have to marry—”

“I won’t _have_ to marry anyone.  I’ll marry as I choose—”

“When you marry, you’ll marry someone for the good of your house and that won’t be me.”

“Why wouldn’t it be you?” she demanded.  “What makes you say you’re not for the good of my house?  I love you, Gendry.  That’s good enough.”

Her words rang through his head that it almost took him a moment to fully comprehend them. “You’d marry me?” he asked slowly.

“Yes,” Arya said, almost exasperated.  “Yes, you stupid.”

His heart was beating loudly in his throat, in his ears, harder than it had been when he’d come apart minutes before, thumping and thumping.  And everything in him was hot and cold all at once, and God of Lightness, she’d said she would.  She would be his, and his alone, no matter what, until the gods took her from this world.

He’d never, for one moment, thought she’d actually truly marry him.  Keep him for her bed, perhaps, but marry him? He didn’t have a name, or anything at all. 

“Truly?”

“Of course. What did you think I’d do?”

“I don’t…” he let his voice trail away.  She’d get upset if he said it.  “Your brother won’t consent.”

“Why wouldn’t he? You saved his life.”

“I’m a bastard.”

“That won’t matter,” she said.

“Others will say—”

“What does it matter what others will say?  What matters is I love you.”

“You’ll truly marry me?”

“ _Gendry_?”

“When we get back to Winterfell?”

Silence hung in the air, and suddenly she looked nervous.  Why did she look nervous?

“Arya?”

“Not right when we get back,” she said so quietly he almost couldn’t hear her. The feeling of elation that had so recently filled him seemed to sputter and hiss and die like an extinguished flame.

She kept talking, her voice rushed.  “I _will_ need to help Bran.  And it’s been such a long time since we’ve all been together—truly together. Not since I was _nine_ , Gendry.  And spring is coming, and there will be so much to be done, to oversee, and I can’t leave Bran and Rickon and Sansa during springtime.  I can’t leave them.  Not just yet.  I know not forever. I’m not stupid but not right away. A year or two. Soon.  Just not right away.”

But the longer she spoke, the darker everything around them seemed to grow, and Gendry looked towards the fire. It was dying, he wasn’t just imagining the darkness, but that didn’t help anything.  He’d known it was too good to be true.  Of course she loved him, but that didn’t mean he came first. It didn’t mean he’d ever come first. He was part of her pack. He was special, perhaps, but not the most special.  Why was he never the most special?

“Of course,” he said icily.

“ _Gendry_.”

“That’s what I meant, don’t you see?”

“What—”

“When I said it’ll never be just the two of us, when I said you’re all I have and I’m not all you have. This.  Right here.”

“It doesn’t mean I love you _less_ , Gendry!” Arya sounded close to tears, though whether in upset or in anger he couldn’t tell.

“No?”

“Gendry!”

“Then why does it feel that way?”

“Because you’re a great big idiot!”

“A great big idiot who has nothing.”

“What difference would it make if I married you right away?  It wouldn’t change your life.  Just mine. It would mean I couldn’t be there for—”

“Do you think I’d keep you from them?”

“It’s not the same!”

“Exactly. It’s not the same.”

He glared at her, and she glared right back, and he saw her lips trembling and a moment later she jerked to her feet and rounded the campfire.  She shook Meera awake.  “Your watch,” she said, her voice thick, and he saw Meera sit up, and rub her eyes.

“You all right?” Meera asked.

“Fine.”

She didn’t sound it though, and Gendry didn’t feel it either.

Meera climbed out of the furs and Arya slid between them, wrapping her arms tightly around Bran, and if Gendry hadn’t read the signs before then, he certainly read them then. He got to his feet.

“What happened?” Meera asked, looking between him and Arya in her furs.

“Nothing,” Gendry grunted, moving as quickly towards the furs as he could.

“What did you say?”

“Of course. Assume it’s my fault,” he snapped. “Couldn’t possibly be the princess, could it?”

“Gendry,” Meera intoned, but Gendry was beneath his furs now, buried between wolf pelts and _why_ did they have to be wolf pelts?

* * *

She pretended to sleep. Pretended because she didn’t want Meera to come back and ask her what was wrong, and didn’t want Gendry thinking she was awake.  She heard him come back to the furs and climb back in and she was sure he was still awake too because his breathing was too fast to be sleep-breathing.

Arya tried not to care. She tried so hard. But she couldn’t not.

She tried not to cry.

She had better success.

He’d promised not to leave her, not ever.  She hadn’t thought…hadn’t dared think…had she been blind?  Was he truly so…

She _would_ _not cry._

What was happening to her? She was more a stupid little girl now than she had been when she was ten.  She hadn’t dared cry even listening to tortured screams by the God’s Eye, hadn’t cried when they had shown her her own death, hadn’t cried even after Father and Robb and Mother and Mother again.  She’d wept for Jon, but Jon was different.  But now?  Gendry was _alive_.  And _why_ were there tears in her eyes?

Everything rushed through her mind, and she couldn’t stop it.  Everything—Gendry telling her to take her cock out and piss to prove she was a boy, Gendry falling through the ice, Gendry’s face when he’d seen her for the first time since Braavos, Gendry when she’d told him she’d marry him, Gendry promising never to leave her, Gendry driving her away.

She hated that thought. She hated him for making her think it. Why had he had to wake up? Why did it have to rain? Why did it have to hurt? Why did everything always have to hurt? _I’m cursed,_ she thought again miserably.  _Everything bad always happens to me_.

She’d told that to Gendry once, and he’d told her it wasn’t true, that she was being stupid. She’d wanted to believe him. She still wasn’t sure she did.

She bit her lip and scrunched up her face and refused to cry. 

She slid into Nymeria’s skin, and there was something so calming about being in the wolf, running free through the pockmarked snow, with her brothers, with her _pack_.  _Gendry’s my pack too._

She was sure that if she hadn’t been in Nymeria’s skin, if her wolf’s mind hadn’t been entwined with hers, she would have burst into tears.  But instead, she felt calm. 

Nymeria was a forceful wolf—oft-times angry, and fierce.  But she was gentle when Arya was with her, or gentle enough. And that gentleness, that homeness, was what Arya needed—that and running as fast as she could, and howling into the night, which she did as well.

 _Gendry’s my pack,_ she thought again. _But he’s not a wolf.  He doesn’t know what pack is._

There it was.

She’d known it when she was eleven, and she knew it again now—Gendry, her closest friend, her beloved her…were they betrothed?  Or had that plan fallen apart as so many of Arya’s plans did? He didn’t know what pack was. He didn’t want to be pack. He wanted to be something else entirely.

 _Husband_ , she thought sadly.  _Husband and wife. Only the two of us, and no one else, even if I love them, even if he cares for them because I do._

She thought of Winterfell, of home, of Bran, and Sansa, and Rickon and the delight that would inevitably cross his face when he saw her and Bran again.  _I’m seventeen_ , _and I’ve not truly been_ home _as home should be since I was nine._ She wanted time in Winterfell, time with her family.  It wasn’t unfair to want that—not at all.  It was unreasonable of Gendry not to let her have it, not to want her to have it. For all the time he’d known her, it was all she had ever wanted.

 _It, and not him.  That’s how he sees it._  

She opened Nymeria’s mouth and let out a lonely howl. 

 _I do love him, but that doesn’t mean I’m his_ , she sang to the stars. She wondered if Ghost and Summer understood—if Bran was running with her, if Jon was there too. Her brothers were watching her. They knew something was wrong. Did they think it was Nymeria, or did they know it was her? 

Ghost took a step foreward, and nuzzled her.  Summer followed him and licked at her snout.

 _Pack_. 

_It doesn’t matter which one of us hurts—they know that pack hurts._

If one of them hurt—if Bran, or Rickon, or Meera hurt—would Gendry comfort them? _He’d do it for me, not for them.  He never learned what pack is.  Never had the chance.  He just thinks that it should be him and me and just the two of us.  Because that’s the only way he knows to love._

She knew Sansa had always sighed over songs like that, Songs of Florian and Jonquil, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Naerys whom he loved so tenderly. Of noble men who swore to love lady fair, and only lady fair, and unto him she bestowed her heart. That was what Gendry wanted, wasn’t it. _That was never me_ , Arya thought nervously.  _Not ever._ She had thought Gendry understood that, but maybe he didn’t.  She’d always preferred the Song of Nymeria, where Nymeria and Mors met one night and agreed to love, and agreed to share, and agreed that they were each other’s, but they did not turn their backs on the world they sought to create. That had seemed fairer, in Arya’s mind. Even at seven, she hadn’t wanted to leave Jon behind, or any of them. She’d not wanted to leave Winterfell, though Sansa had only ever dreamed of it, always going on about who she would marry while Arya was trying to fall asleep.  _They’re all parts of me_ , she thought, remembering her dream and shuddering.  _Mother, Jon, father, Robb, Lommy, and the others.  Ser Ilyn, Ser Gregor, Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling…._   _They’re parts of me too._

She felt her breath coming shallow.  They were dead. Why couldn’t they be gone now? Why couldn’t memories of those men she’d killed be gone, so that she could be alone with her mourning. They were not losses—not even that black singer whose body she’d thrown in the canal.  And yet he was there a part of her as much as her father and the stableboy she’d run through with Needle when she’d been nine.

 _It can never be just me and Gendry_ , she thought sadly. _I’ll always have ghosts that follow me about.  And the living too.  The living most of all_. 

She’d come so far, and fought so hard, she’d be damned if she would miss one moment of happiness in Winterfell with her siblings.  And she wasn’t stupid—she knew it wouldn’t be forever.  Sansa, she was sure, would marry again, or go south to Tyrion. And Rickon would grow, and Bran would give him a holdfast, she was sure of that as well.  And both brothers would marry as well, and she would too—she would marry Gendry and no other, if Gendry didn’t hate her.

_He won’t hate you._

She jerked her head and looked at Ghost.  She could have sworn it was Jon’s voice, but Ghost was sniffing at a tree now, not looking at her at all.  _He won’t hate you.  He’s not that stupid.  He’s just hurt is all. And you are too. Give him time. Give yourself time._

She stared at Ghost. _I miss you._

_I miss you little sister._

_Am I going mad, talking to you in my head?_

He didn’t respond.

Give him time. Give herself time.

She could try that.

Gendry did love her.

* * *

Arya awoke to the sound of hooves and voices and Bran speaking, and she sat up to find four men with the white chains of Umber sewn along the lining of their cloaks kneeling in the snow before Bran.

Not long thereafter, two of them departed, returning an hour later with three horses, and Meera and Gendry helped put Bran on a horse in front of Arya, then mounted up themselves.

Gendry didn’t look at her once, and she didn’t look at him.  _I’m not wrong_ , she wanted to yell at him.  _You’re being unfair and you know it.  You_ know _it._

He had to know it, but he was too stubborn and proud. 

 _Only love hurts more than hate_ , she thought in Braavosi. It had been a line from _The Bloody Hand._ “Only love hurts more than hate, and I’ve never known love, so I shall hurt with hate.”

She wondered, idly, if that was true—if Tyrion Lannister had never known love.  She hoped he had, but then again, if love hurt like this, perhaps it was best if only hate had wounded him.

She bit her lip and kissed Bran’s cheek.  It was covered with a fine red down, now, a beard that had begun to grow in. _He’s only a boy_ , she thought.  _And I’m only a girl. And he needs me and I need him._

She needed Gendry too, though.  She needed all of them—everyone she loved, because if she didn’t have them, she only had the ghosts of the dead and those made for terror-filled company. 

 _I’m not all he has_ , she wanted to cry, looking at his back as he rode ahead of her with the honor guard the Greatjon had sent out. _He just thinks I am.  He doesn’t know that he has anything beside me, because he’s never had…what?_

She saw Meera kick her horse up to ride with him, to hiss in his ear, but he shook her off. _He doesn’t let anyone give him anything.  He doesn’t know how to accept.  Just take.  And what would he take from me?_

She hated that thought, hated it, because whatever he’d take from her, she knew he’d give her something else as well.  _But that’s not what I want.  I want him as I am, and him as he is, and Bran and home in Winterfell. And I want to lie in bed and know peace before more change comes_. 

She wanted, and wanted and wanted, but what she wanted didn’t exclude Gendry—not at all. She wanted him there with her too. _He’s my pack.  He just doesn’t want to be pack_.

He just wanted her and him, because he’d never had anything else and he thinks that’s all he’ll ever be good for.

“It will be all right,” Bran whispered to her, and he squeezed her hand.

“What if it isn’t?” she asked him, not asking how he knew.  Bran would always know more than everyone else, and more than he would let on. That was just how it was going to be from now on.

“It will be,” he said, and he sounded so sure that Arya couldn’t help but believe him.


	14. Sansa

He found her in the glass gardens just after sundown, her fur-lined mantle hanging just inside the door.  She had unwound her hair from its braids and was weaving her fingers through it, tying it into a simple braid the way that Arya had always worn her hair.

“Your Grace,” he said quietly, announcing his presence and Sansa turned to him and found him in a bow, knowing he shouldn’t have come, but glad that he had.

“My Lord,” she said, and he stood tall again.  “I should have known you would find me here.”

Ned Dayne was handsome when he smiled.  Sansa wished she had never noticed it.  She wished she’d never noticed the way his lashes were long, either, or that when he walked, his cloak seemed to billow like sails around him.  There were many things she wished she did not notice, but she did.

“You seemed agitated, and I thought I would come distract you,” he said.  “As for here—you come here.  I merely follow, Your Grace.”

She smiled and looked down at her hands. They were clasped in front of her and she released them, and let them fall to her sides.  Then she looked back up at him.

“It is warm here,” she said simply.

“I thought northerners liked the cold,” he said lightly.  “Or perhaps that is a lie you would have us Dornish believe.  Perhaps you hunger for warmth like all the rest of us.”

“Or perhaps I know you will follow me, and know that your thin Dornish skin can only take so many strolls through our godswood, despite its warm mists.” 

They both knew that wasn’t true, though.  Sansa had stopped going to the godswood when Lords Ryswell and Locke had accused her of false commune with Bran.  “ _She worships the Seven, not our gods_ ,” he had exclaimed, his voice ringing through the main hall, and Sansa had gone white. “ _She hears no words from our king, no more than the rest. This Lannister queen would lead us into darkness_.”

 _I’m no Lannister!_ she had wanted to cry, though she had not. She was no little girl anymore, and any protestation she made of her little husband would be girlish folly. So instead, she had simply replied, “My brother has left his lair, and his voice is thin now.  I hear it, though not so regularly.”

“ _The king is dead_!” Locke had roared. “ _Dead, and the imp’s Lannister bride usurps King Rickon’s power_!”

“ _Bran is not dead!”_ It had not been Sansa who had said it, but Rickon.  _He is so small_ , Sansa had thought, but there was something powerful in his smallness that Sansa couldn’t quite place. _The same power that Arya had had when she’d been that age, hitting Joffrey with a branch and throwing Lion’s Tooth in the river.  The strength of the wolves._   “ _And I am not your king_.” There had been such anger in her brother’s voice, and she’d reached for his hand, and he had taken it, squeezing it tightly.  “ _My brother lives. I know it_ ,” he told the room. “ _And Arya lives as well_.”

“ _You cannot know_ ,” Ryswell had begun, but Rickon cut him off.

“ _I can.  And I do. Shaggy knows, and so do I. You will submit to my sister’s will so long as we await Bran, as you so swore when you named him your king_.”

Sansa had not returned to the godswood after that.  It was a barren place, and empty, and if she could not hear Bran’s voice, she would sooner not be reminded of her own loneliness, of Jon dead and Arya gone and Sandor dying in her arms.

 _I will not think of Sandor,_ she told herself, but telling herself was not as effective as she would have liked, as it once might have been. 

 _The Mother gentled his rage,_ she thought sometimes as she lay awake at night, her arms around Rickon.  _But she could not heal his body_.

Lord Ryswell said she worshipped the Seven, that she was too southron to hold the North, but she was not sure she did anymore.  She could not sing of the Mother’s mercy without thinking of Sandor’s blood on her skirts, his grey eyes blank and his face finally peaceful.

 _He was handsome as well, when you looked past the scars_. Handsome in a different way from Ned Dayne. She should not notice that Ned was handsome. 

His eyes were sparkling when he spoke to her.  They always seemed to sparkle when he spoke to her. “Your Grace is too good to me,” Ned said, bowing slightly. “To think of my thin Dornish skin.”

Where once Ned had strolled with her through the godswood, now he came to her in the glass gardens. The warmest place in all of Winterfell, once they’d repaired its frames.  With only a few hours of sunlight each day, they were warmer than the hottest summer days that Sansa had ever known.  “Not so hot as the sands, I promise,” Ned had said when he’d first found her here. He looked down at the greens sprouting from the ground.   “And more colorful as well.”

“A good queen thinks of how best to serve her people,” she said. _The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy._    _Cersei Lannister had truly believed that, hadn’t she?_

“A good queen is kind, and gracious, and gentle.  An excellent queen thinks of how best to serve her people,” Ned responded, and Sansa flushed. From any other man, she would have thought he wanted something.  That was what Lord Baelish had always told her.  _A compliment is an elegantly concealed weapon.  It promises happiness but begs favor_.  But if Ned Dayne wanted her favor, he did not ask it.  _He is noble.  As father was_.

He meant his word. Arya had promised that he would be her friend in Winterfell in Arya’s absence, and he had so sworn, and from that day forth he had been her friend, as true a friend as she’d ever had, and far more loyal than others.

 _Your late friends the Tyrells fawn most embarrassingly, it must be told,_ Tyrion had written her at one point during the months she’d been in charge of Winterfell, _Lord Mace wants a seat on my council, but I would sooner put a mule on it than him, since I cannot suffer incompetence.  And if he is determined to reprise his role, so too is Margaery, who seems intent that I have our marriage annulled that I might marry her. She is devoted to being queen, that much I will grant her.  And she certainly seems determined to pretend I am a giant of Lannister, though you and I both know that that is one of the greater lies spoken of me._

 _Margaery abandoned me when I married him, and now would marry him herself_ , Sansa had thought sadly.  _Just as Myranda abandoned me when Harry announced his intentions to have my hand.  Such great friends, I have made._ Only Sandor had been true, though harsh.  He alone had been devoted.  Him and Ned.

 _Don’t think too highly of Ned_ , she cautioned herself. _He is only here for Arya._

That was what she told herself.  That Ned Dayne, kind, handsome, gallant Ned Dayne was only here for Arya.

She could see it in his eyes sometimes, the way a look of sadness crossed those lovely blue eyes whenever Arya’s name came up.  _He loves her_.   Sansa had known that for nearly as long as she’d known him.  _He loves you on her behalf.  No one will ever love you.  Not for true.  Only Sandor, and Sandor is dead._

Sometimes she wondered if a part of her had died with him—that part of her that hoped, and truly believed in…in something.  She wasn’t sure what. Goodness, perhaps, though Sandor wasn’t good.  Not truly. But he made her feel as though she were good.  _Better that than the manipulative bitch that Harry saw me as._ She had never wanted to be a manipulative bitch. 

“And what drives my queen to the glass gardens on this day?” Ned asked her.  He leaned against a beam that supported one of the great windows. “Has Lord Flint called you a witch again?  Or a Lannister spy and loyalist?  Or—no, perhaps it is my own Dornish friends, demanding to know why they must pay passage out of White Harbor.”

“You Dornish are quite insistent,” Sansa said, feeling laughter play at her lips. Lord Yronwood in particular had been particularly determined that it be northern ships that take his men south, though White Harbor only had a few trade cogs and was sending them across the sea for any sort of food they could get their hands on.

“I am hardly insistent,” Ned said in a tone of mock outrage, raising a hand to his chest. “Simply my lords bannermen. It is quite the plight. I’m sure you can empathize.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“I wonder if I might be a prince,” he mused aloud, not for the first time.   “The Martells were princes, after all, though that was through the blood of Nymeria.  I suppose I can’t be a king, if I must bend the knee to King Tyrion, even though the Daynes used to be kings.  It feels like quite the step down.”

Sansa nearly laughed. “House Dayne has been a lordly house since Nymeria’s day.”

“But to think we could have been Princes?  Could be now, if I decided it.  Lord feels like such a lowly title for so high a role.”

“The Lannisters are Lords in the Westerlands, and the Tyrells the Lords of Highgarden,” Sansa said, as she always did.

“Speak not of the Reach, Your Grace.  We Dornish are not fond of Highgarden.”

“Ah yes, how foolish of me to forget.”

“House Dayne burned the place once.  Have I told you?”

“I believe you have.”

“Good. I like to remember that.”

And she was smiling, in spite of herself.  _I must not smile_ , she thought.  _I must not have hope. Not that he will love me, and certainly not that anything can become of it._   For what could become of it?  He was the Lord Paramount of Dorne, chosen by the Dornish Lords for it was the Sword of the Morning who had helped bring the dawn and who had led the Dornish across the snows when Prince Trystane had fallen. 

“I had rather noticed,” Sansa forced herself to say, looking down at her hands again. They had found a pale green leaf and her fingers were running along the veins at its center. It was so soft against her fingertips, like silk, or glossy satin.

“There’s no cloth in the world so fine as the feel of a leaf,” she heard herself saying. She blushed.  It was such a silly thing to say, but, ever gallant, Ned Dayne smiled at her.

“Perhaps. Shall we make our clothes from leaves? They would wither and die if we tried, and dried leaves are not so soft.”

“Tis a pity,” she said. “Imagine being garbed only in leaves.”

“It would be a lovely color, with your hair,” he said.  “You should wear green more often.”

Sansa blushed. “Perhaps I shall. It would confuse my lord husband’s court, unfortunately.  For why should a Stark and Lannister queen wear Tyrell colors?”

“You must never wear green,” Ned said at once, an expression of disgust crossing his face. “I could never bear to see you in the colors of Highgarden.”  Sansa laughed.

“Then what colors would you have me wear, my lord?”

She shouldn’t have asked it.  She saw his face grow serious—so serious, and he looked down at the beam he was running his hands along. _He cannot say the white and grey of House Stark,_   _for_ _I am a woman wed, but to say Lannister colors would be to…_

“Whatever color you should choose, Your Grace,” he said carefully.  “So long as you smile, that color will be beautiful. I’d not have you wear a color to make you sad, though.  And not green and gold,” he added.

His eyes were so deep and blue and violet.  _He loves Arya_ , she told herself.  _Remember. He loves Arya.  And all the castle knows it too.  It was why he and Gendry could never get along_. _He cannot love both me and Arya._

She wished he could. She truly wished he could. She wished that his smile was true, that he looked at her as…as…as father had looked at mother, with a love pure and sweet and true and loyal.  _Father was never unfaithful_ , she reminded herself. _He was so honorable and loyal that he would sooner taint his own name than let the world know that Jon was not his_.  _Even if it hurt mother. He loved her, and never let her forget it.  He loved her_. To be so loved.

 _No one will ever marry me for love_.  She’d thought that when she’d been three-and-ten, and a hostage, though she had not thought herself a hostage in her lady aunt's household.  And now she was a princess, a _queen_ , and it was still true.  _Only Sandor loved me, and loved me truly.  Not even Ned loves me so well, for he loves Arya.  And he may care for me, and never wish me ill, but that is not love._

But sometimes it felt like it.  Like now, when he found her in the glass gardens, and wished only to see her smile. _Whatever color you should choose, Your Grace, so long as you smile, that color will be beautiful_.  He wanted nothing of her except a smile and that she could bestow, though it might break her heart.

 _I should not love him_ , she would tell herself. _I should not, but he is all I ever wanted.  He is a true knight—gallant and brave and kind and gentle. All Joffrey and Harry should have been, and all Sandor wanted to be._

_I should not love him, for he loves Arya._

She had promised herself she would not be like Myranda.  She would not be jealous of her sister.  Her sister, who still ached from Jeyne’s torment.  _And my torment as well_ , Sansa thought sadly.  How she’d never thought of it.  Not once, in all those years apart.  She’d not thought on it once, that she and Jeyne had been cruel.  But Arya had insisted that it was true and Sansa didn’t know which was worse—that it was true, or that she couldn’t even remember it.

_A good queen thinks of how best to serve her people, and a good sister protects her family.  I will not hurt Arya.  I will not be spiteful and jealous as Myranda was.  I will be good, even if I suffer._

That could be some small solace, at least.  That if she could not have Ned’s love, at least she would be a better sister than Myranda had been a friend.  _And Margaery_.  She thought of Tyrion’s letter.  _We are still wed, and Margaery swoops in and wants my crown._ Once she’d wanted a sister like Margaery, but what had Margaery Tyrell ever done for her?  She had been kind when Sansa had needed kindness, and then had not spoken a word to her from the day Sansa had been wed. _To think that I’d thought her better than Arya—Arya who crosses half the world to save Bran._

She shook herself. Ned was watching her, wondering what she was thinking.  She had been silent too long.  “I sometimes think I’ve worn every color.”

“Oh?”

“White and Silver for my father, Red and yellow for my husband, blue for my lady aunt and lord cousin,” she would not mention Harry’s name—not ever again—“Black for Jon. Green is the only color left me, I think.”

“And violet,” Ned said, then blushed as if he’d just realized what he’d said, even as Sansa blushed imagining him cloaking her in the violet and silver of House Dayne. _Oh that was unhelpful_ , she thought, as Ned said, “Forgive me, Your Grace. That was inappropriate.”

“Think nothing of it.” She wished her face weren’t red. She hated blushing. Truly hated it. Once she thought she’d blushed prettily, but it always made her face too red and her hair too orange. Arya blushed prettily, red creeping across pale cheeks.

“If only I could,” Ned said, and Sansa looked up at him.  He was taller than she was, and his eyes were blue in the candlelight, and they gleamed, the way they seemed to do whenever he saw her. Her breath caught in her throat.  He was standing so very close to her, close enough to kiss.

She’d imagined a kiss with Sandor once, when she’d been frightened and alone. _If I were brave, I would kiss him now_ , she thought. _But I am a good queen, and loyal to my—_

She wasn’t imagining his lips on hers, though.  They were soft, and gentle, and his breath coming from his nose against her upper lip was cool against the heat of the glass gardens and her hand was on his neck. _It is too detailed to be my imagination_ , she thought. Only Harry had ever kissed her. Harry, and Joffrey, and Sandor, and Ned, now.  Ned, who loved Arya.

His lips were gone, and he had turned away from her.  “Forgive me,” he said, and he was walking quickly towards the door, and Sansa heard herself say, “No—wait.”

He paused, but did not look at her.  “I should not have done that,” he said firmly.

“Ned—”

“It was far from gallant, and you are the wife of my king.  Your Grace, I beg that you forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said.  Her heart was fluttering in her chest. 

He still wasn’t looking at her, though.  He was facing the door, and she crossed to him, and reached out to touch his arm. He started and his head snapped around to look at her over his shoulder.

“They whisper about us. That I am too familiar with you, that I impose upon time you would sooner spend alone, or that you will me there.  Until this moment, I never gave meat to those rumors and I pray you forgive me.”

“Would you have me berate you?” she asked quietly.  “To shriek at you?  I could not. You have been ever a true friend to me.”

He laughed, and it sounded bitter and oddly familiar, though she’d never heard his laugh sound like that before.   “You think better of me than I deserve, Sansa.”

He’d never called her by her name before.  She liked the sound of it on his tongue.  Which only made everything worse.

“You are a good man, and a good friend.”

“Your sister bade me be a friend to you,” he said, and the words hit her like a slap. She looked down at her hand, resting on his arm, and wondered if she should remove it.  She should, shouldn’t she?  It was unseemly that it had remained there so long.  “She did not tell me to fall in love with you, but I did anyway.”

Her hand tightened on his arm, her knuckles going white.

“You see? I have fallen in love with my queen, married to my king.  I force a kiss on her when she is lonely, when all I should ever be to her is a knight, a lord, a vassal. Yet I am base in comparison. I am not worthy of my name, my sword, my shield.”

He made to move, but did not.  It was as though he had only just noticed then that her grip had tightened on his arm.

“You love Arya, though,” Sansa said.  She feared the confirmation in his eyes, but looked anyway.  She was a Stark of Winterfell—she’d known greater pain than this truth. “I know you do. I see it in your face when you speak of her.”

He was no longer looking at her.  His head was hanging, as if she had found his great shame.  “I love you both,” he said.  “What gods could curse a man so?  To love two sisters, and yet I do?  I did not intend it. I would that it were different.”

He shook her hand from his arm, and reached for the door, and Sansa was moving, standing between him and the door. 

 _No one will ever marry me for love_ , she thought. _And I may never marry for love_.  She thought of Tyrion who had promised to release her from the bonds of marriage if Bran agreed.  She thought of Bran, and how he may well need her thrice-damned maidenhead to forge some alliance or another, to bring his more unruly bannermen to heel. She thought of Arya, who had only ever wanted a friend in Ned, and Ned, who had loved Arya, but also loved her. He loved her.  _If Arya doesn’t want him, then surely it isn’t cruel_ , she thought nervously. 

She reached up her hand and rested it on his cheek. He closed his eyes, and his nostrils flared and he seemed to tremble at her touch.  Then, Sansa stood on the tips of her toes, and kissed him.


	15. Arya; Gendry

They’d barely spoken in weeks.  Grumbled “good mornings” and “good nights,” sometimes muttering comments to one another, or saying things to Meera or Bran just loud enough for the other to hear, but nothing direct.

Arya ached. She felt tired, and feverish almost. Once she’d thought there was a hole where her heart used to be, when she’d thought she was the only one left, when she was tired of trying to go somewhere and never reaching her destination, when she couldn’t control anything around her at all anymore. It wasn’t so bad as that now, but that almost made it worse.  She wasn’t numb. She was constantly sore.

 _It hurts because you care_ , she reminded herself in a voice that she thought might have sounded like her mother’s.  Not her mother with the slit throat, the one who had rubbed her hair and asked her why she was crying when Jeyne Poole’s words had stung worse than usual.  " _Why shouldn’t I care?"_ Arya had asked.

_"Because it hurts you."_

_"That doesn’t make sense."_

She thought it might now, though.  Maybe because Gendry wasn’t Jeyne Poole.  Gendry was Gendry, and Gendry…

_He wants me, doesn’t he?  And this is what I am.  Do I have to be someone different for him?_

She didn’t like that. Not at all.  It sounded almost like when Sansa spoke of Harry, and how he expected her to be someone wholly different from who she was. _Gendry is_ not _Harry._ She hated even comparing the two.

The only thing that she took hope in was the fact that sometimes, he would give her some of his rations, or she would give him some of hers.  It was some sort of silent agreement, that even if they were fuming, they did still care about each other.  _I love him_ , she thought as she ate some extra mutton that Gendry had given to her.  _And he loves me_.

_But what does he love?_

She’d thought he knew her best—better than anyone in the world, better even than Jon had, though it had pained her to admit that.  Jon had loved her implicitly, but he didn’t know how she had suffered, and there hadn't been time to tell him.  And Gendry—she’d told Gendry as much as she’d dared, what she couldn’t bring herself to tell Bran, or Sansa, or Rickon.

 _I don’t have anything besides you_.

He did though! That was what was so infuriating. He did have things beside her—he had respect, he had bravery and a good head on his shoulders. He had all these things, could he not see them?  And if he couldn’t, why not?

 _Because it all gets taken away from him, one way or another_. His forge, the Brotherhood, even her when the Hound had snatched her.  And now her again—but that was his fault.  It _was_ his fault.  Wasn’t it? She hadn’t done anything wrong. It was completely reasonable to ask for a year or two.  To let Rickon know family again, to help Bran back to health, to see if she and Sansa could truly get along the way that sisters were supposed to, and which they’d begun doing when war and hunger had forced them.  To put to bed the ghosts that followed her.  All of these things were a part of her.   As much a part of her as Gendry was, and it was easy, when they were alone in the woods, to pretend that they didn’t matter, that they weren’t there. But they were, and it wouldn’t be _fair_ to pretend that they wouldn’t. If she did, then this whole feeling, this ache, this frustration, would just crop up again some other time, after they were wed.

She almost shuddered. She’d never thought to wed. Who would want to marry her? She was ugly little Arya Horseface, and she had blood on her hands and wore breeches and ran with wolves. Yet Gendry had looked overjoyed when she’d said she would marry him, as though there was nothing in the world he wanted quite so much.  And in that moment, she’d been thrilled too—thrilled because Gendry wouldn’t care if she didn’t sew, or sing prettily, or…or generally act all ladylike. She could be _her_.  Marriage wouldn’t change her. 

But Gendry wanted something from her she didn’t know if she could give—at least not yet. She thought she could—love him so profoundly that he’d never feel alone again.  That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

And that was what was so frustrating!  She already _did_ that. It wasn’t her fault that he—what, got jealous of her family?  He _was_ her family.  He was her _pack_.

 _He doesn’t want to be your pack_.  She thought it for the thousandth time it seemed, hoping that this time it would hurt less, but it didn’t.  Not because the thought hurt her afresh—it grew easier each time. But because it wasn’t Jon’s voice she heard it in this time.  There was no affectionate “little sister” at the end of it.  It was her father’s voice now.   _He wants to be your husband._

That’s what humans did, wasn’t it.  Humans didn’t run in packs. They ran in families. And Gendry didn’t have one. He’d never really had one—not since his mother had given him away.  _I could be your family_. She _would_ be his family.  But that didn’t mean she could turn her back on her family.  She wouldn’t ever do that.  She wouldn’t be _her_ if she did that.

And if she wasn’t herself, then Gendry wouldn’t love her.  That was the horrible part of it.  He loved her—he loved her enough to be furious with her now, but if she gave one inch right now, she wouldn’t be her, and then what would he love?  It wouldn’t be her. 

So she fumed silently, and hoped that Bran was right when he said it would all be all right. _Time,_ she reminded herself again.  _Give him time. Give yourself time._

She knew Bran was watching the two of them.  He watched everyone. Sometimes he would skinchange into the birds that flew overhead and when he opened his eyes again he would have some sort of knowing smile on his face.  “What do you see?” Arya asked him once when she felt his breath change and knew he was back in his own mind again.

“The North,” he said. “And spring.  Spring is coming, Arya.  You can taste it in the air.”

And she could. She could taste mud and dirt in the air, and see patches of it where the snow had melted, usually in places that saw no shadow from trees or hills.  She saw the beginnings of green begin to dust the branches of trees, as if Sansa had stitched the brown with hints of life because her embroidery looked too bleak.  She heard the calling of birds, even saw some of them pecking at the dirt and mud and coming away with earthworms, which must somehow still live, even if the earth had been frozen for so long. 

It rained twice in one week, and the rain created little pools of water that didn’t quite freeze in the snow, but also couldn’t quite melt the snow.  The horses waded through slush, and as they rode down the kingsroad, there were people—true people, northmen—repairing wayside inns, doing their best to see if the turnips and beets and radishes they had planted before the snows had come had been frozen in the ground, or if they’d died, or if—just maybe—they lived and could still be eaten.

 _Winters are hard, but the North endures_ , Arya thought. And she saw it, saw it in the faces of the smallfolk who looked up at their horses, who saw the Umber banners and the Stark ones, and the young man with a red beard and blue eyes who rode in front of a woman with dark hair and a long face.

The smallfolk smiled up at them, and Arya wondered if they truly were happy.  How many of them had starved to death within the walls of Winterfell, or whichever castle they’d holed up in.  How many had lost everything, or near enough?  How happy were they truly to see well fed—or at least, better fed—retainers and lords ride down their road, even if it was to return their king to Winterfell.  _Another king_ , she thought.  _It surely makes a difference to them, doesn’t it?  That it’s Bran, and not Tommen or Stannis._  

 _It makes a difference that we bring the spring,_ she thought. _That’s the king they want—the one who makes the sun shine and melt the winter snows.  They want a king who ends the darkness.  Beyond that, they can’t be bothered._

And Arya hugged Bran closer to her chest, and looked out over the spreading fields and relished the warmth of the sunshine on her face.

She tried not to worry. She tried not to think at all. Just to let herself listen to the bubbling brooks, and the wind, and the chirping of birds, the hooves of their horses and the odd squelchy sound of muck and mostly-melted snow, the scent of Bran against her nose.  Better to think on those than on whatever it was that made her hurt. She could think of that later, when they were truly home. 

* * *

“You should talk to her,” Meera hissed at him about once a day, usually when she caught him trying hard to listen to whatever it was that Arya and Bran were discussing. (“We came here once. With father and Robb and Jon. Do you remember? On our ponies.”)

“Leave off,” Gendry would snipe at her.  He did _not_ need Meera Reed telling him what to do, and how to act.

“You’ll be happier.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

“And you’d know that how exactly.”

“Everyone’s always happier once they’ve spoken it out.”

“I’ve got nothing else to say.  She knows my piece.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

It was a circular discussion, one that happened near every day, and Gendry had to admit, Meera was, at least, persistent.  She’d once said that her brother had been as stubborn as Gendry.  Only now did Gendry see how well that had prepared her.

Her cheeks were filling out now that they were eating regularly.  So were Arya’s, and Bran’s, and he imagined his own as well, though you wouldn’t be able to tell beneath his beard.  Always Meera nudging her horse near to him and hissing, “You should talk to her.” As if that wasn’t what had gotten them in trouble in the first place.

Things had been fine before he’d opened his fat mouth, and before she’d gone and said what she’d said. And why did he have to be the one who went to talk to her?  Why couldn’t she be the one who went and talked to him? He hadn’t done anything wrong, no matter what it was that Meera said.

Was it so bad to want to be wanted?  To want Arya to want him?

_She does want you, you idiot._

Yes, she did. But not enough. No one wanted him enough. No one ever could. Not even his own damned mother. Arya was as close as he’d ever gotten, and she…

“Look, it’s not worth fighting over,” Meera hissed at him.

“Easy for you to say,” he heard himself saying.  “Leave off, will you?”

“I will not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re miserable.”

“What do you care?”

“It’s what friends do. They care.”

He wondered if Arya cared that he was miserable, or if she was just drowning in her own upset. He hadn’t _meant_ to upset her, but if she’d just done as he’d wanted…

Then she wouldn’t be Arya. It was infuriating. If she’d just agreed to marry him right away and that was it, he’d have been happy.  Was that so hard? 

But nothing about Arya Stark had ever been easy.  _She just doesn’t know…_ know what?  She knew bloody everything there was to know about him. No one had ever understood him the way that Arya did.  Not even Meera Reed, who sidled up to him and elbowed him and tried to get him to say something, to give something away.  Meera Reed might care, but she didn’t know him very well, and didn’t know how to get all this out of him.  Only Arya could. Arya, who was once again putting her family before him, and when he put it that way it sounded so childish. Not that he’d ever truly known what childhood was, or childishness.  Maybe he was getting it all backwards, now that the world had finally taken note of him and he didn’t have to forge attention somehow.

He frowned.

 _You do have something—valor and honor and respect._ Her words rung through his head, nearly full of tears. 

And the thing about it was that it was undeniably true.  He could pretend it wasn’t, but that would seem idiotic.  Churlish, somehow.  That he’d done so much to prove himself and then rejected the attention he suddenly got for it.  He rode alongside Umber’s men, the only one of them to truly be a Stark…what?  Outrider?  Retainer? Man.  A Stark Man.  That was for bleeding sure.  And though the Greatjon had brought his finest men as an honor guard for his king, these great warriors—battlehardened survivors of the War for the Dawn (as some singer had taken to calling it) all hushed when he began to talk, and all spoke of him as though he were some great and grand hero.

“I’m nothing special,” he said to one of them, a man called Cayde Boggs whose black beard was streaked with white.

Boggs laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “You helped save the King in the North _and_ you fought for the Dawn. Nothing special my arse.”

It was true, and it was odd.  Odd, for that had never been Gendry.  Not ever. He’d only ever been nothing special. Even his knighthood had felt like something less than the other knights who’d been trained properly. But as they rode, he realized sharply that when the men and women they passed along the road looked up, they didn’t see a bastard, a blacksmith.  They saw a knight, a strong man with a sword strapped to his saddle. _I have that_ , he thought.  _They think that’s me, and maybe it is_.

If the Greatjon’s men treating him with deference was confusing, it was nothing to the Greatjon himself, whenever he encountered Gendry on their ride back. He always seemed to be calling out to Gendry whenever he saw them during their ride south.

“Ser Gendry! Will you get over here and convince these bleeding, too-noble-for-their-own-good Starks that the Dreadfort should be ripped down, stone by stone and thrown into the Weeping Water?”

“The King will hear no ill of his bannermen, but if he’s not careful that fat pig Manderly will winkle him out of his royal dues, you mark my word.  He’ll have need of wary friends like you and me to help him with that.”

The Greatjon, whom Gendry had not fought beside, and had barely even spoke to during the war beyond the grunted acknowledgement that they were fighting the same hell creatures, treated him as an old friend—but more than that. As some sort of equal. And it confused Gendry.

“You look like your father,” the Greatjon told him one afternoon as they rode at the head of the party. “All muscle and beard and ferocity. He was a good friend, your father. A finer friend Ned never had, and I counted myself among his closest.”  The Greatjon’s chest swelled, and Gendry wondered if that was even true. “You could do worse than being like your father.”  He chuckled happily. “He loved Starks too.” He glanced between Gendry and Arya, waggling his eyebrows, and Gendry was glad of the beard on his cheeks to hide his flush. 

He wondered if he was like Robert Baratheon.  He’d always imagined himself different.  The Red Woman had once made a comment that he’d had Stannis’ stubbornness, but everyone said that King Stannis and King Robert were as different as it was possible to be. _I don’t want to be like either of them.  I want to be like me_.

And he was. That was the thing. Even as the Greatjon clapped him on the shoulder, and told him that he came of good stock, and it was right that he’d be a good friend of the king’s, he felt odd.  How long had he wanted to know who his father was, and why people cared, and now they did care and he knew why, but he didn’t feel as though it mattered, or should matter. 

And he knew that it would.

 _There are worse things, I suppose_ , he thought grumpily, _than everyone looking at me and seeing my father.  Better than being just another baseborn bastard._

A king’s bastard. A king’s bastard who rode with his father’s best friend’s children, who saved their lives and performed feats of heroism for no other reason than he wanted to.  Whose deeds shone beyond his birth…

He wondered if that was what Arya saw when she saw him.  Or if she saw him as Gendry, who’d once asked her to prove she had a cock.

He didn’t know what he was anymore, in truth.  Not quite a blacksmith, the lone remaining brother of a brotherhood disbanded, of Flea Bottom, yes, but if it were a matter of how the world saw him…he was Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill now, a knight in the service of House Stark. That was something. That was his.  That was a long way from Flea Bottom.  It was his, not Arya’s, even if it was Arya’s, because if she weren’t here, where would he be?  He wouldn’t have stayed.  He’d have…who would he have served?  And why must it be service, always?  _Because you’re a bastard._

Not, of course, that he would have wanted to be King Robert’s trueborn son.  Though if he had been, perhaps none of this war would have happened.  He’d have lived his life in the lap of luxury, and wouldn’t have had to fight his way, tooth and nail, just to exist.  He’d be someone else entirely.  _What though?_   He didn’t know.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

 _So if I don’t marry her right away,_ he thought slowly, _what do I do? What will I be?_

He’d stay in Winterfell. Of that he was certain. He’d serve the household, like a good little lowborn bastard was supposed to.  There was nothing more to fight for, was there?  He’d risen as high as he could go. 

But it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel enough. _Because she’s not a part of it._

There. There it was.  He _wanted_ Arya to be a part of his everything, to seep into his valor and his honor. He wanted her there, smiling with him, proud of him.  For her not to be a part of it would make it all taste like ashes in his mouth, right when he’d reached some sweet pinnacle.  He _needed_ her there in order for him to feel it.

But when he wasn’t speaking with her, when their only contact was a shared rabbit leg, or a grunted “good morning,” he remembered other parts of himself.  The one who had save the life of Brienne of Tarth, who had protected orphans, who had served in both forge and field during the war. He’d been Thoros’ student, Hot Pie’s friend, and had even shared drinks with Jon Snow.  He’d kept Arya alive.  More than once.  But he’d kept others alive as well.  Arya simply mattered more. It was as simple as that. But there were….there were other things. Other parts of him.

 _I should talk to her_ , he thought before Meera Reed even opened her mouth.  But he found that he was scared to.  And what would he even say to her?  What could he even say? How could he even begin to answer that question when he didn’t know what to think of himself anymore?


	16. Arya; Gendry

She ran ahead of them in the night, her girl and her girl’s pack.  She ran ahead, into the woods, her brothers at her side, and she howled, and when she howled, she heard the familiar chorus of her smaller cousins. Her smaller cousins and her angry brother, her dark brother.  She heard him howl too, and when they met, there would be teeth, unless he gave way.

She ran through the woods. _The Wolfswood_ , she heard her girl think as she slept. 

It was a good name for a place of wolves. 

Beside her, her grey brother ran fast and hard, his legs stretching as his boy ran within him. This was a place for pack, and together, her pack would run.

Her pack. She howled again.

They knew she was coming.

* * *

Winterfell rose in the distance, grey stone rising like a crown on the hill and Arya let out a whoop of joy and kicked her horse to move faster. 

“It’s there,” Bran cried happily.  “It’s there! And whole again!”

“Or nearly so,” Meera sang, kicking her horse to move as quickly as Arya’s. 

Arya could hardly believe it—Winterfell at last. This second homecoming would be happier than her first.  She could feel it in her bones.  Though Jon had been there when she’d first reached home before, there had been fear, and darkness, and cold.  Now, though Jon was gone, the sun shone down on her head, heating her dark hair, and Bran was in her arms, and Sansa and Rickon awaited them and when Bran was there, they would all be with him—all of them.  _We didn’t all die_ , she thought, almost amazed. _We all survived.  We all made it through, though the gods only know how we did it._

They rode through the winter town, and men and women and children alike all came out to see their returning king ride past them.  Bran waved to them, and smiled, and some of them even smiled back at him. “Spring King!” someone called, and was met with a host of other shouts. “Springbringer!”  “King of Winter!  King of Spring!”

“I wish they wouldn’t call me that,” Bran muttered to Arya.

“You don’t get to choose what they call you,” Arya said lightly, squeezing his hand.

“Thousand Wolves! Arya Thousand Wolves! Arya Wolf Song!”

“See what I mean?” she added, and heard Bran let out a quiet huff of laughter.

“I wonder what they call Sansa and Rickon,” he said to her.

 _Lady Lannister,_ Arya thought sadly.  She’d heard Rickon called the Young Wolf as well, though never unanimously.  There still were those who thought the name unlucky after Robb.

They rode through the main gate of the castle, and Arya saw Sansa and Rickon waiting for them where once they had all awaited King Robert and his party.

“Bran!” Rickon shouted, and as Arya reined in her horse, Rickon pelted towards them letting out a whoop of breathless laughter.  Bran reached down and ran his hand through Rickon’s hair.  Rickon had grabbed onto his and Arya’s legs and were hugging them tightly.  “You’re back! You’re back!  You’re back!”

“We’re back,” Bran said. His voice was quiet, only for Rickon’s ears, but he shook himself and said for the benefit of the gathered crowd, “I have returned to claim my father’s seat.”

His voice was thin—hardly as booming or loud as King Robert’s had been when he’d arrived in Winterfell, but Arya felt a shiver cross the yard.  Some of them looked to Sansa, who was smiling prettily. Arya saw Ned Dayne standing a few paces away from her, watching closely.  Then Sansa’s pretty smile faded into a grin so wide it was almost hard to believe that Sansa could make that expression and she crossed the yard as well, following Rickon.  And just as Gendry and Meera had Bran down out of the saddle, Sansa wrapped her arms around her brother.

“I’ve missed you,” she said.  “Welcome home. Welcome home.”

Bran was clinging to Sansa. “Demons of the dark didn’t touch me,” he whispered to her, and Arya wondered what he meant. Sansa started, and then Arya saw tears fill her eyes. 

Ned had followed Sansa across the yard.  “I will spell you, my lady,” he said to Meera.  “More even weight.”  He wasn’t so tall as Gendry, but taller than Meera.  Arya saw a flicker of annoyance cross Gendry’s face, but Meera let Ned take her place with Bran’s arm around his neck, and the two men brought him inside, Rickon trailing after them.

“We’ll need to check for saddle sores,” Meera said to Sansa.  “And make sure that he hasn’t bruised.  Will he need to sit at court today?”

Sansa looked around the yard.  “Tomorrow,” she said, loudly enough for the yard to hear.  “Tonight we shall feast and revel in his return.”

“Is there enough food for feasting?” Arya asked quietly as she followed Sansa inside.

Sansa smiled. “Ever since we had Lord Umber’s riders, we’ve been preparing.  The glass gardens have been full of winter greens and roots since the sun returned. There might be little meat, but that doesn’t mean we shan’t fill our bellies.”  She paused and looked at Arya, then opened her arms and Arya stepped into them, holding her sister close.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Sansa said.  “I’m…I’m glad you’re home.”

She was warm, and soft, and taller than Arya as well, and for a moment, Arya felt a little girl again. But it wasn’t the ill sort of memory, the one that made her insides shrivel because Jeyne Poole and Sansa were both calling her “Horseface” again.  It was a different one.  When it had been her nameday and Sansa had braided her hair and had helped her hem one of her old dresses that was too small for Sansa but was the right size for Arya. It had been a delicate shade of blue, and Arya had ruined it in the mud several weeks later—and Sansa had shrieked at her and called her horrible for having done so—but on that day, she and Sansa had laughed together.

“I almost can’t believe we did it,” Arya said quietly.

Sansa squeezed her a little more tightly.  “I’ve come to believe almost anything of you.  You can do anything—you really can.  No one else could have done it.  Or would have.”

Arya pulled back and looked at Sansa, a glowing warmth in her chest. She smiled at her sister. Her sister smiled back.

* * *

“It was frightfully cold here.  I cannot fathom how it was that you stayed warm.”

Gendry had half a mind to tell Dayne precisely how he had stayed warm, but he kept his mouth shut. _Not just yet,_ he thought.  _Not until…_

“Sheer force of will,” He grunted instead, and Dayne laughed.

“If that worked for me, I’d be warmer than a Dornish summer.”

“You must be less stubborn than me,” Gendry responded. 

“I think we both always knew that.”

They were sitting down the table from Arya and Bran and Sansa and Rickon.  The four of them were leaning close together, and Arya’s eyes were alight as she was telling some story or other, and Bran was watching her intently.  They all were.

 _She looks like the odd one,_ Gendry thought. Her siblings were all red haired and blue eyed, and Arya was dark haired and grey eyed.  He hadn’t noticed how different she must have felt growing up before now.  Certainly not while Jon Snow had lived and looked her brother. 

“She’s quite the hero, isn’t she?” Dayne asked, nodding towards her, and Gendry looked at him.

His face was clean-shaven, and his hair seemed lighter than the last time that Gendry had seen him. He also seemed more tentative, in a way that hardly seemed characteristic of the Sword of the Morning.

Gendry thought of the ten year old who had tried to rescue him, even if it meant getting herself taken as a prisoner as well. “She always has been.”

“Of course. Of course,” Dayne said. He raised his mug of wine in a toast. “The Night Wolf.”

Gendry hadn’t heard that one before.  “The Night Wolf,” he echoed raising his own mug, then drinking deeply.  It was a sweet wine.  A gold, from the Arbor.

“The Tyrells had this one sent,” Dayne explained.  “I should call for some Dornish Red just to get the taste from my mouth.”

“Why would the Tyrells send Arbor Gold?” Gendry asked.  Lord Garlan Tyrell had fallen in the battle for the Dawn, and Lord Willas, it was said, blamed Jon Snow for it. 

“In hopes that King Bran will find a peace with King Tyrion, and allow for the annulment of our Sweet Sansa’s marriage.”

“Why would the Tyrells want that?”

“’That Maid Margaery might Marry.’  Have you heard that one? A singer wrote it of Margeary’s three husbands, and how she so longs for a fourth to give her sons at last. Her tastes, of course, are quite refined.  She only marries a man once he’s been crowned.”

“She wants to wed King Tyrion?”

“Her love for him is deep and abiding.  She’s held high regard for him since their time together in King’s Landing.”

“Didn’t she accuse him of killing Joffrey?”

“Who can even remember who was accused of killing Joffrey,” Dayne japed, and Gendry laughed though he had long before vowed he would never laugh at a single joke that Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall ever made.  “I am sure no one ever accused our Sweet Sansa.”

It was the second time that Dayne had called her that, and Gendry frowned, taking another drink of his wine.  It was a fine vintage—or at least, Gendry thought it was.  He wasn’t particularly familiar with how wine vintages were, but he tasted no bitterness on his tongue, and he could drink it as easily as water.

“You kept her alive then. Arya?” 

The question was too casual to be truly casual, and once Gendry would have ruffled at it—that Dayne would call Arya ‘Arya,’ that he would imply with a question that Gendry was…was somehow unworthy of the task.  And maybe it was the wine going to his head already after nearly a year without any, or maybe it was the memory of the way Arya had looked when she’d told him of course she would marry him—if he hadn’t gone and been _stupid_ of course—but he found he didn’t care at all.  It was odd—not caring.  Not worrying that Ned Dayne cared for Arya.  Why shouldn’t he?  It didn’t matter if he did.  Arya would never care for him as she cared for Gendry. 

And he had started calling Sansa “Sweet Sansa,” though he had only ever called her “Queen Sansa” before.

“I made it harder for her to get herself killed,” Gendry shrugged.  “She’s good at keeping herself alive.  And better at keeping me alive.”

“Oh?” Dayne’s lips twitched in a smile.  “That sounds like there’s a story behind it.”

For a moment, Gendry was tempted to tell of falling through the ice and forgetting what it was to feel anything all over his body until Arya had kissed him.  Instead, he said simply, “Just something I’ve noticed over the years.”

Dayne made a hum of understanding, and took another sip of wine.  Gendry had the impression he wasn’t saying something, and, though he was mildly curious, he didn’t care enough to ask.  Or at least that was what he told himself.

Dayne’s eyes were on the Starks again, but not on Arya this time.  He was watching Sansa, and Gendry saw her look over at him, and blush.

“I gather Queen Sansa was grateful of your friendship these past months?” Gendry asked, and was amused to see a flush creep up Dayne’s neck.  _Good_ , he thought. Gendry couldn’t really care, but if it meant that Dayne wouldn’t be focused on Arya…Gendry didn’t want anyone focused on Arya except him.

“I couldn’t begin to—I don’t—I can’t say what she thinks,” Dayne was babbling, and Gendry bit back a grin. 

Dayne saw it, and his expression grew peevish, his eyes narrowing.  “And Arya was grateful of yours I trust?” 

Gendry raised his eyebrows at Dayne, who looked chagrinned.  And in that moment, Gendry felt as though he’d won something. He didn’t know what—but something. He had always been sure of Arya, but…

But he’d never been sure of himself.  Not once. Until just then. Because what did it matter if idiots like Ned Dayne were, or weren’t, in love with her.  The only thing that mattered was that she loved him—truly loved him. And that he loved her, and knew that the rest didn’t matter. They mattered only so much as Arya let them matter, and she’d never let them matter more than he needed them to matter.

* * *

Rickon went to sleep in Bran’s bed that night, and when Arya went to stretch out in the bed that she and Sansa shared in their mother’s bedroom, she felt so marvelously comfortable that she fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. She ran with Nymeria that night, celebrating her pack and diving off through the trees in the Wolfswood, Ghost and Shaggy and Summer at her side.

When she woke, it was to find herself burrowed into Sansa’s side—more out of habit than anything else. She’d never slept so near Sansa before, though after months of sleeping between Gendry and Bran, she was sure that it had just felt a normal thing to do in her sleep.  Part of her wanted to jerk away, unsure of how Sansa would react to being so close to her.  Sansa had cuddled with Rickon when the three of them had shared this bed, but he had always been between her and Arya. 

She opened her eyes and found that Sansa was awake, and watching her.

“Good morning,” Arya said slowly.

Sansa raised her eyebrows and looked at the shuttered windows.  Then a smile crept across her face.  “It’s nice to see daylight again,” she murmured happily, and Arya grinned.

“Nothing like the dark to make you appreciate the light,” she said.  “I wish I’d known just how dark it got in winter when I was a child, or else I would never have complained of how long the days were in summer.”

Sansa blinked at her. “I’d forgotten you used to do that.”

“I had too,” Arya said slowly.  She had insisted on staying awake so long as there was light in the sky, and it had made her frightfully tired every night.  _No wonder I liked the stars and the moon so much, they were a treat of sorts_ , she thought.  She’d always felt more comfortable at night.  She bled into the shadows at night, and dangers didn’t seem so dangerous, and however much further she had to go never seemed quite so distant as the moon and the stars.

“Were you lonely?” Arya asked.  “You and Rickon?”

Sansa frowned. “Not truly.  Sometimes it felt that way—especially when Lords Manderly and Locke and Ryswell sought to remove me from power.”

“They did?” Arya asked sharply.  Sansa hadn’t mentioned that the night before.  Sansa nodded.

“They tried. They didn’t in the end though. They couldn’t with the Greatjon and Lady Mormont on my side, and I like to think that I am able to navigate the politics of a court well enough by now.  But all the same, I was glad you…” her voice faded away and she blushed.

“Glad I what?” Arya prodded.

“I was glad you left Lord Dayne with me.  He was a good friend.” There was something about the way that Sansa said that word.  Arya had grown up with Sansa constantly talking of how good her friend Jeyne was, of how Arya made _friends_ with _anybody_ as though that was a bad thing. Sansa had once used that word differently than she did now, and Arya looked at her closely, taking into account her blush, and the way that her eyes were looking—not at Arya, but at a spot right behind her ear.

“You’re in love with him,” Arya said quietly.  And Sansa’s blush deepend. 

“I would not steal your friend from you,” Sansa said delicately, but she didn’t deny it.

Arya thought for a moment, then felt a grin spread across her face.  “And does he love you?”

“No more or less than he loves you,” Sansa said and there was a quaver to her voice.

Arya chewed her lip. She had not wanted that answer. “Well…how much he loves me shouldn’t matter since I don’t love him.  He’s my friend, but…”  She thought of Gendry, and the look in his eyes right after he fell apart against her, blue eyes blown black, lips and cheeks pink with her kisses, the way he smiled and laughed at the things she said… “But I’m not in love with him.”

Sansa’s expression went from sad to alert very quickly, her eyes narrowing, looking between Arya’s eyes. Arya did her best to keep her face completely blank.  Once, she’d learned to be so good at doing that that even a nameless waif couldn’t tell if she was lying, but that was someone else, no one, and Arya of House Stark sensed it was of no use.  “It’s like a song,” Sansa breathed.  “You loving the bastard son of our father’s best friend, of our father’s king.  It’s just like a song.”

It didn’t really feel like one—not with how she’d met him, with Gendry keeping Hot Pie and Lommy Greenhands away from her, and the horrors they’d seen together, and the hunger they’d suffered.  And she was certain that no song would include her giving Gendry her maidenhead after he’d almost frozen and drowned to death.  It felt like the opposite of a song, but Sansa couldn’t know it all. There was no way to tell her. So instead, Arya smiled. “I suppose,” she said.

“I knew not all the songs were lies,” Sansa murmured, and Arya cocked her head, but Sansa didn’t elaborate.  Instead her smile faded and she looked at Arya nervously again.  “You don’t mind my loving Ned?”

Arya made a noise in the back of her throat as she thought of what to say next.  “I suppose I don’t see how it’s any of my business. So long as he loves you—and does so truly, I don’t mind.  If he’s like Horrible Harrold Hardying though, and speaks ill of you behind your back…well then I guess he’s not truly my friend.”

“He never would,” Sansa said earnestly.  “He’s noble. He’s honorable. I—” she cut herself off and her eyes were suddenly bright with tears.  “I didn’t think there were men who were noble and honorable anymore. I thought the last one was father.”

Arya thought of Gendry, who’d sworn to keep her alive and had done so.  She didn’t think she’d ever thought of him as honorable or noble, but maybe he was.  Those were just words, after all, even so…

“I suppose it won’t matter in the end.  If I love him. I will marry whomever Bran wills me to marry.”  She did not sound wholly thrilled with the subject.  _Joffrey, Tyrion, Harry—she’s not had much freedom of choice in the matter._

“I think Bran might will you to follow your own will.  And if he doesn’t, you and I might have reason to convince him.”

She thought of Gendry again.  _It doesn’t matter that he’s a bastard_ , she told herself. _He’s the only one who’s allowed to make of that what he will_. And she was sure that Bran wouldn’t hold that against them.  Why then would he treat Sansa differently?

There was hope in Sansa’s eyes as she nodded, and she squeezed Arya tightly.  “I hope you’re right,” she whispered, sounding almost like she was nervous to say so.


	17. Gendry; Arya

Bran held himself well.

It was something Gendry had noticed when he rode, or when he sat, or when he was carried. Bran held himself well, with more presence in half his body while sitting than most men had standing.

When he was seated on the great throne in the main hall the next morning, a hush fell through the room.

“Lord Jon Umber,” Bran said, his voice ringing through the hall, and the Greatjon stepped forward, and the session began.

Bran was a gracious king—not, of course, that Gendry had any idea what made a gracious king. He listened to his lords bannermen, and rewarded them for their leal service in his absence. He was fair—or at least, as fair as Gendry could determine someone being—and listened with purpose, his blue eyes clearer than Gendry remembered seeing them in a long while.

Though Winterfell had little wealth to bestow as honors of war, he promised that, during the summer, as his crown was able, his men would be rewarded for their valor. He gave holdings to the younger sons of his bannermen, approved marriage betrothals, and consented to Lord Manderly’s suggested tariff at White Harbor.   

Gendry watched Arya as much as he watched Bran.  Arya stood with Rickon and Sansa to the side of the dais, and sometimes Bran would turn to his siblings and consult with them.  Arya watched Bran like a hawk, her eyes alert.  Her hair was worn in a simple braid, and she was wearing a rich grey velvet tunic.  She was beautiful in her focus, and Gendry chewed his lip, knowing that he needed to speak with her, that it couldn’t go on like this, that neither of them were happy with it.

He was so focused on Arya that he almost missed Bran calling his name, and it was only when Arya’s eyes flew to his that he realized that the king had said, “Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill.”

Gendry stepped forward and knelt before the king.

“Ser Gendry,” Bran said, “Your valor during the war proceeds you everywhere you go, as does your loyal friendship to my sister Arya.  Your bravery, your fortitude, and your gallantry do you credit. You are all a knight should be.” Gendry tried not to look too pleased with himself.  It was a nice thing to hear, but he didn’t wish to look a fool before the court.

“I thank you, Your Grace,” he said simply.

“This alone affords you recognition, but there is more.  You aided my sister in saving me from a fate I would prefer not to think on, and one that I did not wish.  You risked your own life, your health, your comfort in the aid of my royal person.” He saw a flicker in Bran’s eyes, as though Bran knew how silly the words sounded, and Gendry tried not to grin. He had a feeling you weren’t supposed to grin when being honored by a king.  “You showed a friendship I had not expected, though I should not have been surprised by it.  Our fathers were great friends—that you should be a friend to my house is in your blood.

“And that I should be friend to you is in mine.  Lord Gendry,” he felt a chill run up his spine, a twist in his stomach not unlike the one he’d felt when he’d fallen through the ice, “I award you the seat of Hornwood, to rule in my name until your last day, at which point your sons, and your son’s sons shall hold land and title until the end of your line.”

Gendry felt his jaw drop. “Your Grace,” he began, but he didn’t know what to say.  What could he say? He was no lord. He didn’t know what it meant to be a lord—to rule castle and keep and have smallfolk to tend to and…he looked at Arya. She was smiling at him, a hesitant smile, and he was still looking at her when he heard his own mouth say, “I thank you, Your Grace.  You do me great honor.”

“You do yourself great honor, Lord Gendry,” was Bran’s simple reply.  But Gendry almost didn’t hear him.  He was still looking at Arya.

She watched him closely, watched the way his eyes were shining, almost too brightly to be natural. He stood and retreated to the line of lords, and though some of them made towards him to congratulate him, he did not talk with them long.  His eyes kept coming back to her, serious, but not angry, not bitter.

 _He accepted it_ , she thought happily. _He knew he deserved it.  That he’d earned it._ Bran had been clever with that. 

Bran tired quickly. She could tell from his voice, growing hoarse, and the way he seemed to slump back in his seat, only to sit up straight again when he realized he was looking tired.

“Brother,” Arya heard Sansa call, and she turned to look at her sister.  The hall fell silent, and eyes shifted to Sansa. Arya saw Lords Locke and Ryswell’s eyes narrow, and Rickon glaring at them angrily.

Sansa stepped towards the center of the hall, and knelt before Bran as Gendry and all the rest had done.

“Sansa?” he asked her.

“Your Grace, I have a matter I would place before you.”

Her voice was calm, smooth, clear.  

Bran shifted slightly in his seat, leaning forward.“I would hear it, sister.”

“Your Grace is aware that while I was held hostage in King’s Landing, I was married to Tyrion Lannister, who now rules the kingdoms to the south.  He is a good man,” Arya heard a few grumbles.  Not all of Tyrion’s choices had been well met in the North. Sansa ignored the grumbles. “It was not his will to wed a girl unwilling, and he has said that, if Your Grace consents, he will plead for an annulment with the High Septon.”

“Could you not have done this, sister?  Had you truly wished to be free of him?”  Bran’s voice was not unkind, and Arya saw some lords nod, glad he had given voice to their own question.

“I…” Sansa’s voice trailed away, and Arya saw her thinking quickly.  _How to make it sound right, that her marriage protected her from Horrible Harry, even though she did not wish it._ “I was never free to make the plea, Your Grace.  Nor too did I wish to sabotage your relations with my husband.  If you have need of me in his court…I will go.”

“But you would prefer my consent to have your marriage annulled.”

“If it please Your Grace.”

Bran’s eyes crossed the hall, drinking in faces, before looking at Arya, looking at Rickon, and then, finally, Sansa again.  “It is a matter I will consider.”

Arya saw Sansa’s face fall for half a heartbeat, before she inclined her head and said, simply, “Your Grace.”

* * *

Gendry wasn’t sure anyone else noticed, but he certainly saw Ned Dayne leave the hall after Bran had said he would consider Sansa’s annulment.  The expression on his face had been all too familiar.

Once, Gendry might have thought that he deserved whatever frustration he encountered, but even thinking that thought felt wrong, somehow.  It was hard to dislike Ned Dayne when he wasn’t worried about Arya leaving him. _I was more a threat to her loving me than he ever was_ , Gendry thought sadly.

When the session ended, Gendry saw Arya, Sansa, and Rickon go to Bran and they went with him from the hall.  Arya looked at him as she helped carry him away, and chanced a small smile.  Gendry tried one too, but his lips didn’t seem to want to cooperate as much as he intended, and they only twitched.  It was enough, it seemed.  Her eyes went bright for a moment before Rickon tugged at her sleeve and she had to turn away.

Gendry wasn’t entirely sure where to go as the lords dispersed.  He didn’t have men to command, or even noble friends who would stroll with him and do whatever it was lords did.  He did note some glares—men who didn’t like that King Robert’s bastard had been given Hornwood.  _They can go stuff themselves_ , he thought. At least, he thought, the Greatjon’s smiling at him across the hall was nice.  But the Greatjon did not come over to him, dragged into conversation by Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse Manderly.

He found himself walking through the lichyard, and then going into the godswood.  The last time he’d been in here was after Lord Snow had fallen, when the snows had been thick and the winds had been brutal. Today, it almost felt pleasant, and there was a dusting of green along the branches of the trees—all of them save the great weirwood in the center.

He saw Ned Dayne sitting before the weirwood, staring at it.

He considered turning back. He wanted to.  He didn’t bloody like Ned Dayne. Not disliking him wasn’t the same as liking him.  But he found himself continuing to move forward, and he sat down on a rock nearby, watching.

“She wanted it so badly,” Dayne said, his voice more bitter than ever Gendry had heard it. “She wanted it, and he denied her.”

“He didn’t deny her,” Gendry pointed out.  “He said he’d consider it.”

“He denied her,” Ned said flatly, angrily, rounding on Gendry.  “He was saving the brutal no for private that she would not be humiliated before the men of the North who insisted upon calling her Lady Lannister while he was away, though she hated being a Lannister as much as they hated her for it.”

“He—”

“She wanted him back, and safe, and what does she get for it?”

“You don’t ‘get’ anything for wanting your siblings happy and safe.  That’s not how it works.”

“And what would you know of it?” Dayne asked mulishly.  Gendry’s anger flared, and he was tempted to shake the man.  Perhaps he was wrong.  Perhaps he still did dislike Dayne.

“You haven’t got siblings either,” Gendry pointed out, somewhat proud of himself for keeping the rage from his voice.

“I’ve an aunt who is as dear to me as a sister,” Dayne said.

“And if she were ruling Starfall in your name, wanting you home hale and healthy after a war away—”

“I would give her heart’s desire for all that she’s suffered.”

“You would? And what if her heart’s desire would make your rule of Dorne difficult, my lord?”

Dayne looked at him sharply.

“And what do you know of it?” Dayne asked again, “You know nothing of ruling, or—or—”

“I don’t know much, but I do know who your sister marries matters a great deal unless you handle it with great care.”  That he did know. That he’d known better than Arya. _You’re a lord now—a lord of the North.  You’re fit for her._ She’d never cared, but Bran giving him a lordship…it wasn’t just about him deserving a place to rule.  _It was for Arya too.  I’m sure of it._

“I’m aware of that as well,” Dayne snapped.  “There was a way not to be cruel, though.”

“Bran Stark is not a cruel man,” Gendry said, sighing.  “You don’t know him well.  Give him time. He may yet change his mind. And if he doesn’t…” Gendry felt a smile play at his lips.  “I imagine Arya will have something to say about it.”

Dayne looked at him sharply.  Then he cocked his head, his eyes narrowing.  “Why do you care?” he asked.  “Why did you come here?”

“I don’t honestly know.”

That only confused Dayne further.  Gendry couldn’t blame him—he was confused himself.  He didn’t like Dayne, and he didn’t even want to be bloody friends with Dayne, why was he—

_Because he’s Arya’s bloody pack.  And so he’s mine too._

He started to laugh. It was stupid. So stupid.  He was practically hooting, and Dayne looked even more unnerved. “What’s so funny?”

“I couldn’t even begin to explain it.”

* * *

They settled Bran at the center of his bed and Sansa turned away quickly to leave, keeping her face turned away from them all. 

“Sansa,” Bran said.

“It’s fine,” she said, though her voice was thick and sounded anything but fine.

“Sansa,” Bran repeated.

“Leave her be,” Arya said. “Let her at least—”

“No, I want to explain,” Bran said.

“Explain what? That she can’t be free to marry who she wants?  I think she got that.” Arya didn’t want to be angry with Bran—not at all.  _It will be all right_ , he’d promised her after she and Gendry had fought. Had he known that she’d wanted to marry him?  She’d thought he had. She’d thought he’d known it all, and that he had quietly agreed.  That that was just one more reason to give Gendry a lordship—so that no one could complain and so that Hornwood would be uncombatted.  But now, she didn’t wonder if she’d be free at all. 

“You can have your marriage annulled, Sansa,” Bran said loudly and Sansa froze, her hand on the door handle.  She turned around quickly, looking reproachful, but she didn’t say a word.  She waited.  “I couldn’t say it in front of Lord Manderly.  I need White Harbor unconditionally, and he wanted Rickon, not me and not you.”

“You could have done it anyway,” Arya grumbled, but Sansa shook her head.

“No. I understand,” she said slowly. She did not look happy, but she did not look miserable.  She did look thoughtful, though.  She came back to the bed and sat down on it.  “Who am I to marry then?”

Bran shrugged. “Whomever you like. So long as you’re happy. I’ll not force you to be miserable all your days.”

Sansa’s eyes went wide and bright and a smile creeped across her face.  She bent down and kissed Bran’s forehead. “Thank you,” she breathed.

Bran glanced at Arya. “Same goes for you.”

“You’d have had a hard time stopping me,” Arya pointed out.

“Why would I have bothered trying?  I know what you’re like.”

Arya elbowed him.  

* * *

She found him that night when most of the castle was abed, knocking on the door to the bedchamber he’d been moved to now that he was a lord.  She heard the shifting wood of a bar being raised, then there he was. He had trimmed his beard, and he was in his shirtsleeves, and Arya chewed her lip nervously, looking up at him.

“Did you tell him to do that?” Gendry asked her bluntly.

“I thought he might,” Arya said slowly.  “I didn’t say anything, though.  Bran does what he wants. Can I come in?”

Gendry stepped aside and let her in, but he didn’t close the door behind her.  She looked between him and the door.

“I don’t want people to talk,” he said.  “To say I…”

She raised her eyebrows. “What’s the worst that will come of it?” she asked him, and closed the door while he frowned, his forehead scrunching.

There was so much she wanted to say, but the first thing she heard herself saying was, “Have you thought of a name for your house?”

Gendry blinked, and his frown deepened.  “Everything feels wrong,” he muttered.  “I’ve never had a bloody name before.”

“Well, you can take your time to pick,” she said and sat down on his bed. “It should matter to you.”

“Everything will feel forced,” Gendry sighed.  “Like me being something I’m not.  I’m not a bleeding lord, Arya.”

“You are, actually. Well, not the bleeding part. But the lord part. You are a lord now. A lord of the North.”

She took his hand and smiled up at him.  “And you did that all on your own.”

Gendry shook his head. “I didn’t.”  Arya raised her eyebrows at him, and opened her mouth to protest, but Gendry cut her off.  “No. I didn’t.  If it weren’t for you, I’d still be a bleeding smith at Harrenhal. A dead one, maybe even. So even if you didn’t tell Bran to make me lord of Hornwood, it’s still down to you.  At least to some extent.”

She wanted to kiss him for saying that, but she didn’t.  She couldn’t.  Not just yet. Because if she kissed him, she wouldn’t stop. It had been far too long since she kissed him.

“Gendry,” she began, but Gendry let go of her hand and pressed his fingers to her lips.

“Two years,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

She blinked at him. “You mean it?” she asked.

“Yes. Look, I’m a bloody idiot. You know that. But I apparently am a lordly bloody idiot and need to figure out how to actually be a lord.  And I could ask you to help me—I know you would. But I should figure that out on my own first.  Should figure myself out a bit first.  Yeah?”

She hadn’t even dared hope he’d say something like that.  It was what she wanted.  And yet, she felt suddenly afraid. 

“Hornwood’s not that far,” she said.

“Nothing’s far after that trek north,” Gendry said dryly.  Then his expression changed—nervousness, or perhaps something akin to panic. “I’ll be close, I promise. And I’ll come visit while I sort it all out.  Give you the time and space with your family you need.  That you bloody well deserve.”

She did kiss him then, hard, her tongue finding his.  He groaned into her lips and his hands flew up to cup her face, and she was making some odd choking sound, between a laugh and a sob as he ran his fingers along the line of her jaw.

“I love you,” she whispered to him between kisses.  “I love you. I love you.  I love you.”

“I know,” Gendry said and his arms dropped down to squeeze her to his chest.  “I love you, Arya Stark.”  His lips hovered over hers, and he pressed a light kiss to them. Then he kissed her nose, her forehead, each of her cheeks, her neck, and she bent her head so that he could reach her neck better.  His hands were on her breasts over her tunic and with a rush, Arya realized that they wouldn’t freeze completely if she pulled the tunic over her head, and did away with her shirt, so she pulled away from him and tugged the hem of her tunic. Gendry’s eyes were wide, and dark as he looked at her breasts, and the expression on his face was so reverent Arya wanted almost to look away, to bite her lip, and blush.

“God but you’re beautiful,” he whispered, and tentatively, he reached a hand up and trailed his thumb along the underside of her breast.  Arya gasped.  She’d known the skin there was soft, but against the calluses on his hand, it felt positively delicate. His hands looked so large against her breast, and for a moment she wondered if her breasts were too small for them before he traced a circle over her nipples and she moaned and her head fell back and she realized that was such a stupid thought.  What did the size of her breasts matter, when Gendry could send tremors through her with just a touch.

 _It can be fun if he knows what he’s doing,_ Cat of the Canals had once heard the Sailor’s Wife say, _But it’s best when there’s love.  And I love my husbands dearly._

 _Husband_.  She grinned. Gendry was all but her husband now. They’d done all but say the words before the heart tree.  And even if he was to go away for a while…

But that was a thought for later, a sad one, or melancholy at least, and not for when Gendry’s lips were on her nipples as they were now with his beard rubbing soft against her breast, not for when she was mewling like a cat, and lying back, and pulling him down onto the bed with her, her fingers threading through her hair. She could feel his cock hard against her hip as he nipped at her nipples, and she rocked into it, making him groan and feeling the vibrations of it through his lips.

He stopped his sucking and rested his chin between her breasts, looking up at her. In the light from the fire, she couldn’t see how blue his eyes were—his pupils were dark and there was a flush in his cheeks.  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

“I’ve missed _you_ ,” Arya whispered back.   She sat up on her elbows and bent her head down and he raised his to kiss her and his tongue slid lazily into her mouth.  She cupped his face, her fingers drawing circles in his beard and he shifted up on the bed so that he was hovering over her, and she felt his cock rubbing against her stomach. She let a hand drift down his chest on her way to stroke it, but changed her mind mid-gesture and tugged his shirt up and trailed her hands over his stomach, playing with the dark hair that grew there, running her fingers in the crevices between his muscles. His skin was soft here, except where there were some scars.  She found two or three that crisscrossed his chest and pushed against his chest gently and he rolled over for her, tugging his shirt off as he did. 

She straddled his lower stomach, relishing the feel of his cock rubbing against her ass, of the moisture pooling against her smallclothes as her slit stretched over his stomach. She traced the scars on his chest and looked at him—truly looked at him.  His skin was pale, his hair was dark, and did not grow over the scars, wherever he had gotten them.  She ran her fingers through his chest hair and watched as his lips twitched, and his eyes fluttered closed, his nostrils flaring.  His nipples were the same red as his lips, and Arya wondered if they tasted the same and bent to kiss them.  His hips jerked underneath her, his cock pressing into her ass, and she smiled and gently rubbed her teeth over the soft skin.

“Arya,” he hissed, and his hands were on her breasts again, tugging at her nipples and making her gasp. They were so stiff, and his fingers pulling at them sent such a sweetness through her, and she paused in her kissing and rested her forehead against his chest.  “That feels good?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she hummed.

When they’d been in the woods, it had never been like this.  It had always been fast, and good, but never…never like this. They’d kept their clothes mostly on, and if Gendry’s hands did make it up her shirt to fondle her tits, it didn’t…enflame her quite like this.  Maybe clothes dulled the sensation.  It would make sense, given how different it felt to have him rub her slit through her trousers. 

And just like that she wanted him inside her, wanted him inside her so much that she almost trembled at the thought.  She reached her hand down and undid his laces and pulled him loose, feeling the moisture at the tip of his cock and circling it over the head before pumping her hand up and down his shaft.  Gendry was moaning and lifting his hips towards her hand, his own hands unsure whether they should stay at her breasts, or hold her hips, or pull her face to his for another kiss.

He decided on the last and when their lips crashed together, Arya almost gasped from the sensation of it, the taste of his breath and hers, the gentle rub of his fingertips on her cheeks. 

She kept on pumping at his cock, and felt him shifting beneath her, and his lips departed from hers for just a moment while he lifted them both up and moved more squarely onto the bed. He used his feet to tug his trousers the rest of the way off, then placed his hands on her hips and pushed her off him and very quickly unlaced her and tugged her trousers and smallclothes off her.

And there was that look again, that reverent look, with eyes dark and mouth slightly agape and Arya felt herself blushing again as he sat between her legs, his cock hard and long and a little bit darker than the rest of him.

“Gendry,” she murmured, sitting up and reaching out for him, expecting him to lean forward and kiss her. But he didn’t. He took her hand and squeezed it, then let go of her, his hands coming to rest on her knees.

“I just want to remember this,” he said slowly.  “You like this.” Then he groaned. “Arya.”

“What?”

But he shook his head. He bent down and kissed her belly, hot open-mouthed kisses that made her stomach dance. “How many times have I spilled here?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said. Her fingers were in his hair again.

“Too many,” he whispered into her skin and his lips were going lower, and lower. “I never wanted to, though.” She felt his breath in the hair of her mound as his lips went lower, and lower. “I wanted to stay inside you.” And he ran his tongue along her dripping cleft. 

She gasped and arched. “Gods be good.” She’d had his fingers there before, had them inside her as well, but it was never like this, his tongue warm, and wet, and soft but sturdy all at once.  And he licked along her, up and down, and across, his tongue entering her more than once and curling inside her.  Was his tongue so long?  She’d never noticed before.  She’d never had reason to notice, and didn’t even know if she could notice it now. She couldn’t notice anything now, and yet seemed all too aware of everything, the softness of the furs underneath her, the sound of her own breathing, the way her body seemed to fill with fire, seemed to tremble as though whatever held it all together was on the verge of breaking, the feeling of Gendry’s hair as she held his head in place, his beard against her thighs, and his tongue, his tongue on her slit, his tongue finding the nub at its head and circling it, his lips sucking her in, the sound of her own voice filling the room as she cried out, and tingles erupted over her skin as every muscle inside her pulled inward and went hot and cold and her heart was thudding so hard in her chest that she wondered how she could ever have thought there was a hole there at all.

Her eyes were closed and she felt Gendry kiss her lightly once more before kissing his way up her stomach, between her breasts, to her neck.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and sighed, relishing the weight of him on top of her.  He slid a finger down between her legs again and circled at the nub again.  “You are everything,” he whispered to her, and she believed him. “You are unbelievable. I can’t believe you’re real, and yet here you are.”  She kissed his shoulder, her eyes still closed, drawing his skin lightly between her teeth. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to say anything anymore.  Her voice was somewhere else—she’d used it all up while Gendry had been licking her. And yet there it was again, moaning his name as his finger continued to circle her.

“Yes?” he asked her.

“Gendry,” she moaned again, and she felt his breath against her cheek, a quiet chuckle.

She wanted to move, wanted to kiss him, to reach down and grab his cock and make him feel everything she felt, but she couldn’t move.  Not at all, and her blood was still coursing through her, and the throbbing between her legs hadn’t truly subsided, not with Gendry’s finger still circling and circling.   “Gendry.”

He laughed for true this time, and shifted, his finger going away and the crown of his cock pressing against her opening.  He pushed inside her and moaned, holding very still.  He kissed her once, twice, three times, but still didn’t move. So Arya decided to move for him.

Summoning what strength she had, she pushed him over so that he lay on his back and began to rock her hips against his, wondering at the sound of him sliding in and out of her, that way their skin slapped together.  She rested her elbows on either side of his head and rolled back and forth, biting her lip to keep from gasping at the sensation of her nipples rubbing against the hair on his chest.  At first, his hands were gripping her thighs so tightly that for a moment she thought she might bruise, but then he moved them, trailing them along her spine along her sides, cupping her breasts, cupping her chin, sliding over her stomach, along the inseam of her thighs until he rested his fingers right over her nub again and pinched it very lightly. 

And she was crying out again, gasping again, burning again, clenching around his cock because it was there, and it felt so good to have him there inside her, beneath her, with her as her skin was ice, was fire all at once.  And he was gasping too, and his cock was gone and she wished it weren’t, wished he were still inside her, but he wasn’t and she felt his hot seed on her stomach again as he sucked her neck and his fingers gripped her ass.

She practically fell off him, her leg still crossing over his, cleaved to his side as closely as she could be, his arm under her neck, his hand resting on her cheek, thumb trailing over her lips as they both lay there, breathing hard, breathing because that was the only thing left for them to do. 

How long they lay like that, Arya did not know.  The fire hadn’t died in the hearth when Gendry shifted to lie on his side, facing her, eyes hooded and lazy and content.  He was smiling, and his hands were trailing along her side and the thought came to her so suddenly that she couldn’t help but grin.

“Hollowhill,” Arya said, nuzzling her face into Gendry’s chest.

“What?”

“That should be your house’s name.  Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill, Gendry Hollowhill.  It matters to you—it’s where you became a knight, where you really got started. So Hollowhill.”

She looked up at him, and in the flickering of the firelight she saw wonder in his eyes.

* * *

Arya spent much of the next three days abed with Gendry, sleeping—or not sleeping—and laughing and talking, or sometimes just lying there quietly and breathing. If anyone noticed, they said nothing, and Arya suspected that they noticed. Bran certainly had a smile on his face that was too benign  _not_ to mask something, and Sansa was unreadable, which usually meant that she was hiding her thoughts carefully.  Rickon asked her what had happened to her neck, and Arya had had to lie and say she’d walked into a door, much to Gendry’s amusement. 

On the fourth day, though, Gendry rose early, and by the time Arya made it to the hall for breakfast, he was already finished eating, a determined look on his face. “I’m riding for Hornwood today,” he said, and Arya felt suddenly sad.  She must have looked it because Gendry flinched.  “I’ll not be far.  And I…I need to go.”

 _He’ll be back_ , Arya thought.  She knew it was true.  But she didn’t want him to go.  Not just yet.  _But he needs to._ So she nodded. 

“I’ll come visit soon,” she said.  “Once the planting is done.” Gendry nodded at her. Then he looked around the hall. There were people there, and even if they’d spent the past few days abed, they had at least tried to be subtle about everything.  She saw him hesitate, but realized she didn’t care at all.  She kissed him, not caring if the whole world saw, if the whole world knew.

So what if they did?

She was Arya Thousand Wolves. She could do as she damn well pleased.


End file.
